


Searching Stars

by chewsdaychillin



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Star Wars Setting, Breaking the Jedi Code (Star Wars), Forbidden Love, Gen, Getting Together, Happy Ending, Jedi Code Bashing (Star Wars), Jon is a Jedi, M/M, Mutual Pining, Slow Burn, Strangers to Lovers, The Force Ships It, martin is force sensitive but doesnt know about the jedi, some action and violence but nothing graphic, some fluff some comedy some plot, tim and sasha are copilots on a quest, with friends in the middle
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-17
Updated: 2021-03-09
Packaged: 2021-03-10 03:34:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 38,137
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27596921
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chewsdaychillin/pseuds/chewsdaychillin
Summary: ‘Moorch-ei seven-four,’ Tim reads from the computer, ‘foggy surface, oxygen atmosphere, population thirty-one thousand. Damn, that’s small. Oh! It says their capital is known for the local’s skill in metalwork and mechanics! Guess we head there, then.’This makes Sasha nod encouragingly, but does nothing to stop Jon’s belief that this stop will be is a colossal waste of time.Jon is on a mission to complete his final trial and become a proper Jedi Knight and determined not to let anything - tech failure, impromptu stopovers, emotions - get in the way.Martin is a mechanic in the Outer Rim who has no idea the things he can do in secret have a name and can be shared.About loneliness, connection, emotions, repression, spirituality, balance and communication.... in space !!!
Relationships: (background), Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Sasha James/Tim Stoker, background Georgie/Melanie, little a martim as a treat (jus a bit of flirting)
Comments: 184
Kudos: 200





	1. The First Planet We See

**Author's Note:**

> ok so ! this is meant to be set like after all of star wars canon... there is no empire there are no wars. the republic is in charge tho and still training jedi and worried about the sith as a like... a concept. also the wars were long enough ago that most people just know the stories and some people (cough martin cough) have never heard of any of it
> 
> there will be star wars lore in this but not like... deep lore. stuff u can google if u dont know it and mostly just like.. the force. which im sure u are all aware of thru cultural osmosis. if i get any deep lore wrong......... i mean its a podcast au im not that bothered but sorry to the hardcore star wars fans
> 
> tma lore wise uhhh there are no entities or anything its fully star wars universe but there are obvs references n stuff

The kitchen is quiet this early in the morning, and still a bit dark. Martin keeps the light off, absentmindedly turning a beaker over and over in the air as he waits for the pot to whistle. He turns his wrist slowly, watching the light from the rising sun start to filter under their makeshift blinds and bounce off the side of the beaker. That sunlight means it’s nearly time to go. 

His mum’ll wake up in three, two -

The groaned call of his name from the other room still makes him lose track of the beaker and he fumbles to catch it before it can hit the ground and clatter. 

‘Coming,’ he calls back, trying to sound soothing and calm and failing as is part of the routine. 

He takes the pot off the hotplate before it can whistle, listening for the return of snores as he fills two beakers with the hot, thick liquid and carries them through. 

Her eyes are closed again as he tiptoes in, so he lowers the beakers gently, hands free, so they don’t make a sound against the shelf. He’s standing up to go again when another mumbled groan comes from the bed. 

‘I thought I told you not to do that,’ she grumbles into the pillow. Her words come out breathy and her breath sounds like it’s grating out of her throat. 

‘Sorry,’ Martin says, unsure how much today is instinct, how much placating, how much pity. He shakes his head a bit - he knows better than to float things around her even in the dark. ‘Didn’t want to wake you.’

‘I’m awake.’ 

‘Okay. Do you need anything else?’

She waves her hand weakly in his direction. ‘You’ll be late.’ 

The sun casts a lavender light through the hazy drizzle as it crests the horizon. It’s frustratingly sort of beautiful over the estate. The moons are still pale and high in the sky as Martin steps out and up the stairs, adjusting his bag where the shoulder strap needs another heavy row of stitches. He’ll do it tonight, maybe, if mum’s asleep. Then he could do it without touching the needle and save his wrists.

He looks over the rotunda at the other kids: the ones who are playing in the dirt before school or instead of school; the ones who are, like him, getting ready to go to work. He doesn’t think of himself as a kid, of course, but they are The Kids if they’re not the parents here. It's a generational thing. A couple of Elders are out on old folding stools in front of their doors, holding makeshift shelters over their heads and watching over everything with worn eyes. Most of the Parents have already left for work or are working inside. 

The responsibility that seems to separate generations elsewhere doesn’t really fit here. The other kids climbing onto three legged mounts and rickety land speeders have as much of it as their parents. It could have been something to bond over, but they don’t seem to do that. Maybe if Martin had been any good at talking. If he’d had the guts to ask years ago, maybe they could have shared loads sometimes. One of them could have looked in at lunch time, crushed up his mum's pills for him.

As it is none of them look back at him, the oldest kid, in responsibility more than just age, as he kicks his piece of crap speeder into life. It’s fine. The journey isn’t that long. He’ll be back to work on time if he leaves on time. 

The speeder judders as he puts it in gear, and Martin closes his eyes for patience as he hears something clatter and squelch on the soggy ground. 

Just another day. Get through the day. Normal, fine, regular bloody day. 

He speeds off to town and tries to focus on the colours changing in the sky instead of all the rest. 

\--

They’re still friends, Jon reminds himself sternly as he stands in front of a rusted bathroom mirror in what has to be Coruscant’s dingiest bar. They’re still friends, which means he can ask this favour and pay a fair rate and not panic in the bathroom before he does it. 

He stands to his full height and sticks his chin up at his reflection. He’s sure his robes still look a bit too big, a bit too clean, but he straightens them all the same. Determinedly, he does not see it as nervous to tuck his hair, including the thin plait he’s still a bit reluctant to let out, back behind his ear. 

Then he huffs a firm noise of acceptance and opens the door. 

Immediately into a droid holding a scrubbing brush. 

‘Sorry,’ says on instinct, ducking away into the bar. Then he calls ‘watch where you’re going,’ back behind him in an effort to seem somehow more impressive. 

He finds Tim at the back of the bar, sprawled across half a booth, clinking glasses with a Togruta woman wearing big glasses and a grin. He stands up as soon as Jon gets near them, and though the several belts slung with beeping fobs and a blaster across his hips are new, his smile hasn’t changed at all. 

‘Hey, you!’ He beams, opening his arms and tugging Jon into them when he doesn’t go for the hug with the same enthusiasm. ‘Crikey, look at you, all Jedi-d up.’ 

‘Yes,’ Jon clears his throat once he’s released, ‘well. You know.’

‘You’re really a proper Jedi then?’ Tim asks, pulling up a stool. 

‘Yes I really am,’ Jon says tersely, forcing the stool closer to him and sitting down opposite Tim and the woman he doesn’t know. ‘Or I will be. As soon as I pass the trial.’

Tim whistles. ‘Cool. Well it’s good to see you!’

He says that so genuinely Jon allows him a small smile. ‘You too.’ 

Tim introduces his lady friend as ‘Sasha, by the way,’ and Sasha-by-the-way gives Jon a casual two finger salute and makes it clear she is the co-pilot. 

‘Just the co-pilot,’ she makes _very_ clear. 

‘Well,’ Jon reassures her, looks pointedly at Tim, ‘I just need pilots.’ 

Tim seems altogether thrilled with the idea of going on a grand tour of the far most galaxy - his eyes glitter like they did in school when Jon tells him he doesn’t _exactly_ know what they’re looking for, or where, but he knows who to ask, and the council have told him he’ll know what it is when he sees it. 

‘I’ll feel it in the Force,’ he says, with a decisive firmness he only feels half the time. Maybe less than half. 

Sasha seems more skeptical, but Jon actually appreciates that. She pulls up a hologram map and immediately starts talking to him about stop offs and fueling points, and he works through his information until she’s got at least the first portion of it sketched. 

When it comes to talking money, Sasha is again, it seems, the one in charge of the numbers. Jon had counted on Tim giving him some sort of discount - the Council have offered to pay his way but he really doesn’t want to go over what they strictly budgeted for. That would probably count as some sort of strike against him. 

(And he may well, if he can’t find whatever it is he’s meant to be looking for as soon as they seem to think he can. Not that it’s not nice to be believed in, only it’s better not to set expectations when he’s worried he won’t meet them. And it’s even more to know the worrying is exactly what makes him weak and makes him right to worry.)

(No. He can. He will find it. He was top of his class. He’s qualified for this. They wouldn't have sent him if they didn't think he'd succeed. He’s going to pass the trial.)

Tim does offer him a lower rate, which Sasha frowns at, but he also says ‘that means you’re not a client. If you’re paying mates rates, then you’re a mate. Which means you have to play dejarik with me, and I get to pick the music.’ 

Jon agrees with only a slight eye roll.

The rest of the time he stays so as not to seem like a complete prick is pretty pleasant. Not that he forgot how fun and easy talking to Tim is. He hadn’t forgotten. But being in training and then in the Temple for so long has meant it’s been a while since he’s talked to anyone about anything that isn’t the Force or classes or the Council. His classmates don’t tend to have friends outside of the Jedi; it isn’t really the done thing. So getting back into the swing of being normal and friendly is pretty tiring. 

Plus, he’s sure there’s a couple of people round the bar watching him. He was warned this might happen, and didn’t need to be told really because he’s been the person staring before. There’s something very conspicuous about the robes, he knows. More significantly about what they’re hiding. The silver handle housing a bright green crystal hung off his belt. 

But he manages well enough, talks to Tim more than he thinks is enough for the pilot to know Jon appreciates the ride and his friendship more than his awkward conversation can communicate. 

It’s only when Tim asks ‘so what did end up happening with you and Georgie?’ That he finishes his drink and stands. 

‘We broke up a while ago,’ he says, avoiding eye contact, ‘and no I’m not seeing anyone else, so I’ll thank you not to pry. I’ll see you at the port.’

When he turns to go he hears Sasha slap Tim’s arm for being nosy behind him. 

The take off is only slightly bumpy (which Tim blames on Sasha and Sasha and Jon blame on Tim), and the jump to hyperspace relatively smooth. Tim’s ship is light and agile, he tells Jon enthusiastically over a drink in his only slightly cramped living space, carrying no extra weight. 

‘Except this old thing,’ he says, half standing up and twisting his hips to reach for a refill. 

He winks and Jon rolls his eyes as loudly as possible. 

‘So how long, then? Until we reach the outer rim?’

‘Be tomorrow morning,’ Tim tells him. ‘I can show you where you’re sleeping if you want, or we can stick a couple holotapes on?’

Jon thinks about it for longer really than he should. The way Tim tilts his head when he asks reminds Jon very much of the curious way he used to propose sleepovers at sixteen. But what he ought to do wars as usual with what might be nice, and he ends up shaking his head. 

‘I’ll sleep, thank you.’ 

Before climbing into the top most bunk in the little room Tim shows him, Jon sheds the robe that’s dragging on the floor. Sitting cross legged on top of it in the centre of the room, he closes his eyes slowly and tightly. 

He breathes in, and touches his fingertips to the floor, thinking and feeling and seeing the space around him and all that flows through it. He breathes out, allowing it all into his head and body and letting it squash the worries he has about not succeeding, about putting himself and Tim and Sasha in danger. The Force spreads through his fingertips and the ship feels a lot safer, the universe a lot bigger and easier to feel.

Jon opens his eyes and sees the room and more and contentment. He sleeps relatively easily, sheer luck letting him pass out before his meditations wear off and anxieties creep in. That and the gentle rocking motion of the bunk as the ship drifts. 

He does not wake easily. 

Red flashes through the room and an alarm is ringing. In the distance somewhere - _cockpit,_ Jon knows - but still aggressive enough to tear through his sleep and wrench his eyes open. 

He runs through the living quarters to the flight deck, and finds Tim and Sasha - both in pyjamas - already scrabbling at the controls. 

There’s a good deal of shaking and shivering and knocking about. Jon can’t reach the handle they’ve sewn into the ceiling so he stumbles into a wall and holds a pipe there as they judder about.

‘What-?’ he tries to ask, but is cut across by Sasha reading statuses of various bits of machinery and Tim calling back to her in numbers and swear words. 

They’ve clearly come out of hyperdrive, and were not at all prepared for the rocks and asteroids and clouds of dust they’ve materialised into. 

Tim lunches them this way and that, breathing heavily as he dodges and weaves between them. Sasha slams a lever back that Jon thinks is the breaks - he hopes it’s the breaks. His fingers bite into the pipe he's clutching. 

It is. With a great creaking they slow down enough that Tim can steer without throwing his whole body into it. Eventually they manage to shut off the alarm at least, and keep fiddling with buttons until Sasha can say ‘stable’ with varying degrees of ‘umm’ in front of it to everything on Tim’s list. Jon eases his fingers off the pipe one by one. 

‘Mother of...’ Tim collapses back into his seat. ‘That’s one way to wake up in the morning.’ 

‘Is it alright?’ Jon asks him, frowning at the still blinking lights across the control panel.

Tim avoids his eyes. Sasha looks at Tim. 

‘What?’ 

Tim sighs. ‘It’s our hyperdrive compressor. It... well it’s a bit fucked, evidently. Check engine light is on a lot in general, I mean we’re used to issues, but this... isn’t really something we can do your whole quest without.’ 

Jon feels his brow furrowing up as he squints at Tim suspiciously. He half wants to ask if Tim knew it was broken before they took off. Not sure why he’d do that, but it just seems like too annoying a thing to happen. But he thinks Tim might be insulted at the insinuation he doesn’t look after the ship, so instead he just huffs and asks ‘So what’s the plan?’ a bit waspishly. 

‘It’ll be fine,’ Tim placates, spinning round in his chair and tugging gently on Jon’s nightshirt. ‘We’ll just have to stop for repairs.’

‘I don't have infinite time.’ 

‘First planet we see,’ Tim promises. 

The first planet they see rises into view just a few minutes after he says that. And is, Jon decides with a groan, one of the smallest and ugliest looking planets he has ever seen. 

‘Moorch-ei seven-four,’ Tim reads from the computer, ‘foggy surface, oxygen atmosphere, population thirty-one thousand. Damn, that’s small. Oh! It says their capital is known for the local’s skill in metalwork and mechanics! Guess we head there, then.’

This makes Sasha nod encouragingly, but does nothing to stop Jon’s belief that all this stop will be is a colossal waste of time.


	2. A Foggy Landing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a meet-not-so-cute and i attempt to write an action scene. i read on google that credits are about equal to dollars so. thats what im going w. if its not true sorry to the real sw nerds

There is commotion that morning at port like Martin hasn’t seen in years. They get the occasional ship in for refuelling and repairs, but normally people head to the capitol, not the suburbs. 

He’s sitting alone in his workshop, a few others scattered far enough away that he can excusably ignore them, and they can be relieved by it, when he hears it. A scraping of docking stations against hull.

A lot of people leaning in engine-shed doorways raise their eyebrows at the noise, but Martin is well practiced at tuning all that out. He only looks up for long enough to see that the ship is an old VCX-100, and has clearly been well loved, if not splashed out on. All that clanking and groaning must mean something is properly broken, though. The hull makes him look twice: it has been painted with lurid stripes of glowing yellow, orange, and neon pink. Then he looks again because there’s a whistle going round, and sees the pilot swaggering out, pointing his fingers at the staring onlookers like jaunty blasters. Martin can see his grin through the fog from here.

He’s very attractive, and looks very friendly and very much like he could easily be convinced the work is going to take longer than it actually will and be nice about the whole thing. 

So Martin flags that he’s free, tucking the pieces he’s still working on inside his shirt, and stands up faster than he usually does at work when he gets the nod from the foreman. 

On the way over to the broken ship he grabs a clipboard that someone’s left unattended. Looking official always helps. Not in selling the lie, he can do that no problem usually, but in feeling the confidence he needs to sell it the way he’s going to now. 

He takes a breath as he reaches the pilot, who is now accompanied by a tall woman with orange skin and a skeptical look in her eye. It’s fine. It’s like any other lie. He hopes it works on her species at least, he’s only tried on locals and people he meets at port, which isn’t many people. She is a head taller than him though, and looks very competent. Oh, stars, what if-

‘Hi,’ he says as he always does, playing up his customer service voice and playing down his accent. ‘What seems to be the uh-’

He’s going to say  _ issue _ , pull the pen from behind his ear and put on his glasses like a proper official, but the pilot is tilting his head and grinning. 

‘Hi,’ he answers, ‘all business here is it?’

‘Sorry,’ Martin says on instinct, hating that his cheeks are immediately getting a bit warm. Nobody who drops in for repairs on Seven-four usually wants chitchat. Not with him anyway. ‘Welcome to Moorch-ei. There’s...’ He gestures around at the rusting engine sheds and distant foundry, ‘not a lot to see.’ 

‘Can’t see shit with the fog anyway, huh?’

‘Shit is a good descriptor.’

The pilot laughs. His co-pilot, Martin assumes, rolls her eyes fondly and sticks out her hand. ‘I’m Sasha, he’s Tim. Our hyperdrive compressor is broken and we’ve got some, uh, cosmetic damage we could do with fixing up.’

‘You mean the neon stripes?’

‘The neon stripes are a staple, sir!’ Tim cries, mock affronted. ‘Plus, you have to admit it’s genius for visibility flying somewhere like here. I know you’re loving them really.’ 

Martin looks down at his clipboard, hiding the nervous flush that he’s sure is no good for the lie he’s about to tell them. He doesn't go red easily, or at least he doesn't show too easily when he gets hot in the face. But it's cold enough here that his cheeks are used to cold and cling to any warmth they can get, which is annoying when you spend a lot of time being embarrassed. The way the pilot is smirking makes him think it's probably a bit more noticeable today. In his defence, he's not at all used to the flush that comes with attention. 

‘Well,' he tells the clipboard, 'I’ll have a look around, but it sounds like it’s gonna be at least seven hundred.’ Then he looks up to see if they've bought it. 

Tim raises his eyebrows but nods without hesitation. Sasha frowns. 

‘That seems-’

Martin breaths and closes a fist around the rigid plastic, trying to summon calm and make his voice come out the way people believe unquestioningly. 

‘That’s pretty normal for the time it’ll take me. Just how things get done here.’

‘You’re going to fix it yourself?’ Tim asks, but he almost sounds impressed more than disbelieving. 

Martin doesn’t chance it: statistically people are far more often disbelieving. ‘Yeah, just me will be fine. You guys go enjoy... whatever you can around here.’

As he says it he feels the familiar calm wash over him like a thick, cool liquid, and feels it wash over the others too. They both smile and he can breathe freely again. Even feel a bit smug as they nod and move to head off. 

‘Bar’s that way,’ Martin tells them happily.  _ Seven hundred. And they’ll probably pay in credits. Shit. That’s two hundred before he’s even started.  _

‘Cheers,’ Tim calls back, turning round and shooting him a cocky salute. ‘Never got your name.’ 

‘Oh,’ Martin mumbles,  _ really  _ hating how red he’s going now. 

This might be the longest he’s ever spoken to a stranger. And he never normally gives his name to clients. Because it’s easier to lie when you’re overlooked as just an employee, and because they never ask. He considers lying again, but no one else is ever going to ask him. Besides, he is about to steal quite a bit of money from them. 

‘It’s Martin.’ 

‘Nice to meet you, Martin,’ Tim grins, ‘come join us at the watering hole when you’re done, yeah?’

Martin gapes for a few seconds before looking back at the clipboard, long enough to see Sasha smacking Tim’s arm and leading him away.

Their laughter fades as they head to the bar, and Martin is just deciding that _that,_ whatever that was, flirting, maybe, will have to serve him for a while as the closest he’s ever got, even if they’re laughing. Then he turns to head into the ship and finds himself looking up the ramp at the most beautiful man he’s ever seen. 

He feels his mouth fall open for the second time in a minute and cringes at himself, but there’s nothing he can do to close it. 

The man is quite short, shorter even than most of the people here, which doesn’t happen often on Moorch-ei, and looks very put out to be here. Half of his black hair is swept up, away from his sparkling dark eyes, and the length around his shoulders is speckled through with refined grey. He’s wearing complicated looking layers of beige and sand tunics under a flowing robe that he’s belted over his narrow waist. The way the hem of it skims his ankles probably means it’s too long for him otherwise. 

There’s some kind of weapon hanging off his belt - or at least Martin assumes it’s a weapon as he doesn’t recognise it as any piece of machinery he’s ever fixed before. It lends gravity to the determined way he stands, like he’ll be damned if no one will give him the time of day. It’s maybe kind of hot, as much as it is cute alongside his frown and petulant pout. 

His forehead and under his eyes are wrinkled, and he has a smattering of scars across his face, but in a way that only serves to humanise the rest of the beautiful bits. Yeah, and he has nice lips and a handsome nose and - 

‘Excuse me,’ the man says tersely as he stomps down the ramp and knocks Martin’s clipboard with his elbow. 

Martin blinks fast as he processes this, turns on his heel and stares at the man’s back, in shock still at his blatant rudeness. He’s used to being ignored, but walked through is a new low. 

Before, he had been reeling over the prospect of stinging the crew for a few hundred credits, but now the petty urge to rifling through their cupboards for a little extra is itching in his fingertips. There must be something valuable on board - spare parts at the very least. If this guy’s going to be a prick about it then it seems fair game. 

‘Your friends went to the bar,’ he calls, knowing and not at all caring that he sounds unprofessionally annoyed. ‘It’s that way.’ 

The man turns back again. His hair is pulled into two adorable buns at the back of his head and there is a thin plait loose over his ear that Martin still desperately wants to tuck back. Okay, maybe he doesn’t need to actively rob the man...  _ Bloody hell, Blackwood, get a grip.  _

The man sighs dramatically. ‘Oh, stars. And they’re probably getting themselves in sorts of trouble and need a bodyguard.’ He grimaces. ‘Right. I was hoping to go under the radar, but. Right.’

He sets his jaw (hot), and draws himself up like he really thinks his short, scrawny self in his too big robes is going to scare off a shady cardsharp (adorable and sort of worrying). 

Then he storms off, leaving Martin alone on the ramp, still annoyed, still thinking about pilfering something off the ship, and still very hot in the face. 

_ Well _ , Martin tells himself firmly, watching the beautiful, rude man, who is probably carrying a hell of a weapon if he’s this confident, stride off to the distant, tatty bar.  _ Ship won’t fix itself.  _

Tim is charismatic, obviously, and very funny. Jon means that genuinely - it’s the whole reason they had their first conversation at a party they’d both agreed was pretty lame, even by Jedi standards. Tim had made him laugh, and that first barrier coming down so soon made making friends a bit more permissible and less terrifying as a prospect. 

But Tim also has a tendency to just open his mouth and say things because  _ he  _ thinks they’re funny, or right, or needed. Which, when he’s with Jon, or Sasha or one of his other friends, Jon assumes, usually goes down well, or with a fond eye roll if not. At a shady bar at a repairs stopover on some backwater shit-show fog-storm of a planet however, it becomes a liability. 

That’s what Jon decides he’s going to blame it on anyway, as the shooting starts. 

They burst through the swinging saloon doors, sprinting towards the ship. Tim and Sasha are already firing back over their shoulders at the fierce looking gang chasing them. They are outnumbered; it’s lucky they’re both decent shots. A lightbulb shatters above the leader's head.

Jon had really hoped to avoid actually drawing his lightsaber on a repair stop, since it tends to draw even more unwanted attention, but needs must. 

Green light cuts through the fog with a noise that kick starts defence-mode in him like nothing else. 

Screeching bullets and the whoosh of the blade fill the air as he starts swinging, whirling his wrist around instinctively to volley back the shots. 

‘Why did you have to say that?!’ Jon yells over the noise.

‘Say what?’ Tim cuts back, ‘they’re pirates, they’re after the ship!’

The pirates are gaining now, starting to aim for the ship like they’ve realised they won’t get a hit in with Jon covering the other two. He can see the surprise and anger on their faces now that he recognises in seasoned fighters losing to a scrawny man without a gun. 

The captain goes to his belt for a knife and Jon looks around on instinct for a crate, a broken part, something. The pirate chief grins and throws his blade. Tim ducks, but it doesn’t get near him anyway - a spare carburettor Jon’s found goes flying and smacks the chief in the chest.

Another pile of junk lands at the feet of his cronies, making them skid to an abrupt halt and smack into each other. 

‘Go go go!’ Jon shouts to Tim and Sasha, putting himself between them and the blaster-fire. A red laser shoots close as anything and he sends it back with a cutting swipe. 

Sasha is still shooting over his shoulder. She lands a spot-on shot over the barricade, making the pirates duck for cover. Tim grabs her free hand as soon as she’s out of a firing stance. He starts tugging her towards the ship. 

‘Come on, let’s go!’

She fires a couple more times. 

‘Sasha, I’m not losing my ship to these fuckers!’

‘Did you  _ lose _ to them?!’ Jon yells at him exasperatedly, tripping up one of the cronies who makes a run around his wall of spare parts.

Tim pushes Sasha ahead of him then, so affronted he stops dead halfway up the ramp. ‘Jon, I didn’t bet pirates my ship in a junkyard! I’m not sixteen anym-'

He cuts off with a screaming swear and Jon whirls round to see him clutching his thigh, red spread under his fingers. 

Jon stares at it. The blood. Fear courses through him, cold as anything, chilling to the bone. It breaks his concentration and another shot goes whistling just over his head.

‘Get in!’ Sasha calls. 

He ignores her, volleying back a few more shots to try and give her time to carry Tim into the ship. But panic is clear in her voice and threatens to overtake his limbs as fast as Tim is losing blood and - 

‘Jon, get in, let’s go!’

He runs backwards, blocking lasers from the ship’s door as he goes. Adrenaline is pumping and every screaming bullet sounds like Tim's pained yelling bouncing off the insides of his skull. Before he’s ever halfway up the ramp he misses again, gets _fucking lucky_ again in ducking away from a close range shot. 

Sasha grabs the back of his collar and hauls him through the door as soon as he’s close enough, slamming the airlock closed after them. 

She has an arm around Tim's waist, his elbow crooked loosely around her shoulders. He seems okay, giving Jon a weak smile. But his tiptoes trail along the floor as Sasha takes off for the flight deck, still carrying him.

Jon runs after them, trying hard not to think about how he asked to fly him out and they’d be safe on Coruscant without him. 

Sasha doesn’t bother with her headset as she clatters into the cockpit, throwing Tim off her arm and into the pilot’s seat. Her hands immediately start flying over buttons and dials, not calling out what she’s doing this time except to shout over the whirring, protesting sounds of the ship - 

‘Tim. Tim, stabilisers.’

Tim’s face is drained of its usual life and colour, but he doesn’t look out of it at all. If anything, getting back in front of the controls has given him a focused, dangerous look that Jon has seen before, but not to this level of life and death. 

He turns the dial as directed and follows it up with a bunch of other buttons that Jon has no doubt are the ones he knows on instinct. That does help him on the worrying and guilt front a bit as he takes hold of the same bit of pipe. 

The rush of engines and the bumpy feeling of a ship vibrating pre-take off makes them all hold their breath.

Sasha looks at Tim for only the briefest of seconds, checking his hands are on the wheel and his jaw is set before she pushes a heavy thrust lever forward to its fullest extent. 

The ship groans as it wrestles against the metal holding it at anchor. Tim grapples with the steering as it tries to thrust his arms off. 

‘Come on, baby!’ he urges the machine through gritted teeth. 

Sasha leans over to stare out the window and yelps. 

‘Emergency docking system, we’re stuck!’

Jon closes his eyes before he can see them turn round to him in desperation. It’s a big job: two huge metal arms suctioned onto their hull on either side, programmed to only release on the approval of the foreman. The atmosphere is heavy here, the air thick with that bloody fog, and from behind the pilot’s seats it’s not like Jon could see what he’s doing anyway. 

He breathes. Spreads his fingers and holds them still. Forces himself to stop fearing and feeling guilty and do something useful. Concentrate.

The space between metal and metal. The point of contact between the ensnaring arms and their temporary home. The same particles, same elements. The iron from factories hundreds of miles apart but bent and hammered into shape with identical machines. The same steel rivulets holding the suction cups in place as are holding their hull together. And between them - a tiny space that is just air. The same air he is breathing. 

Balance. A Force. 

Another breath and everything tightens and cools suddenly in his fingertips, spreading down across his palms. 

The cockpit is still beeping and shaking, the engines groaning, Tim and Sasha pushing their expertise through panic. Blaster fire echoes through the window. But over it all Jon can hear the little scrape of the nuts and bolts turning. 

When they eventually burst the crash is loud enough that he hears Sasha jump. 

‘They’re breaking off us!’ She shouts with a desperate joy, almost laughing, 'Tim, they’re breaking, let’s go!’

‘Oh my-’ Tim breathes. 

With his eyes closed, Jon knows Tim is staring at him over his shoulder, and grins as he pushes the screws fully out the suction cups away from their hull. 

The ship lifts off the ground and shakes, clattering between the two arms as it tries to wiggle free. There is a great deal of unpleasant scraping and the control panel starts another round of beeping. 

‘Nearly there,’ Tim promises. 

Sasha knocks her unclipped seat belt as she whirls round in her chair. ‘Jon-’

He opens his eyes, and she blinks as all his laser concentration zeros in on her face. 

‘Can you buy us a couple more metres?’

Jon hates pressure, but the cool feeling is still present, familiar and strong in his hands. He doesn’t bother closing his eyes this time, instead focusing all his attention on the floor and the parts inside it that once were carbon in trees and people. The life-force in that that’s in him and in the metal he’s warping outside. 

He hears a few onlookers scream and gasp. 

The final push makes him almost lightheaded, but with a grimace he manages to get the arms away from the hull, just enough that Tim can pound the accelerator and shoot them free. 

The rush of wobbly take off is a relief. Putting air between them and the foggy surface means their panting can calm down slightly, even if the sound of blaster fire and the clang of metal when hit rattles through the still rattling ship. 

Tim whoops as they speed away, and Sasha plugging in her headset and fiddling with less essential buttons makes Jon think he can relax a bit. He leans a bit heavily against the door, not quite exhausted but probably in need of a sit down. 

The horizon dips below them, further and further until it is obscured fully by the thick fog. A few bright bursts of red and green light flash through the clouds in front of them. Then they peter out too. 

They stay quiet, Sasha watching Tim, Tim determinedly watching the fog, in front of him and above him as they climb higher. 

Eventually they can look up and see the stars in the distance. 

Tim lets out a long breath. ’Forty-thousand feet,’ he sighs, flopping a bit in his seat. 

Then they can all relax for real. 

Sasha nods, smiling and breathing easier too. She reaches up to turn on the auto-pilot and stands, offering Tim her hand. 

‘Come on you. Med-bay, now.’ 

Jon hits the door lock and heads out into the corridor, leaving Tim in Sasha’s far more capable hands. At least when it comes to carrying him, and probably forcing him to sit down and sit still. 

He’ll be no more use to them for the moment. Without him they’d never be in this mess, after all. And he’d rather be alone if his head starts to betray him along that line. He'd rather be alone just in case. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> gee i wonder how long jon being alone will last in this slow burn fanfiction... 
> 
> heheheeee let me know what u think xoxox


	3. The Cute Mechanic

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> uh oh lads jon bout to make a discovery

The corridor is still and quiet now that the beeping has stopped. Peace, after all that, is very necessary. Maybe if he can get to his hammock first he can sit down for a second before he’s needed again. Either for an emergency or first aid. Before he can get too in his head about the fact that Tim, one of his, what, two? friends, is in the Med-bay getting bandaged up because of him.  It’s going to hit him at some point, Jon knows bitterly. Meditation and balance are supposed to keep that sort of thing at bay.  _ There is no emotion, there is peace _ . But he fails at that routinely. He’s... what had his tutors had called him? Volatile. 

And on top of all that, they’re going to need to land again, somewhere. The repairs still aren’t finished. The idea fills Jon with a tired dread that makes his feet feel heavy down the corridor.  He’s just thinking that at least he’s got a map somewhere in his backpack that would be an ideal comfort right now when he hears a knocking, a clattering and a sharp gasp from a door to his right. 

The sound is instantly muffled, but Jon stops dead. A beat of quiet follows, but there is no way he’s going to be convinced he didn’t hear all of that. 

Another second and he brings his saber off his belt, poises one finger on the ignition.

The few steps he needs to take towards the cupboard door are taken as quietly as possible. He forces the handle to turn slowly, the lock pins clicking one by one in the silence.

Then the door opens. 

And someone is screaming at him and he is screaming and stumbling backwards. 

The man in the cupboard claps a hand over his mouth, but a second later he yells again, his eyes wide in fear and lit with green.  Jon looks down to see his blade up and shining around the corridor. His finger must have slipped on the button with the shock. 

‘It’s fine, hey,’ he tells the babbling man impatiently, ‘you don’t need to- I’m not going to hurt you-’

He sheaths his weapon and hangs it back on his belt before raising his hands.

‘Stop screaming!’ He shouts over the man’s continued noises of alarm.

‘I’m not screaming!’ the man yells back. ‘And you’ve got a laser sword!’

Jon rolls his eyes. But at least it seems to have stopped the racket. He takes a second to look closer at the ambushing visitor - the glasses, bent and askew now, the grey boiler suit and heavy boots. 

‘You’re the mechanic,’ he realises. 

The man nods, gasping for air still, and he finally shifts his gaze from Jon's belt to his face. 

‘I heard-’ he pants, ‘I heard shouting and... What’s going on, are we-’ his eyes flit in panic to the window and he gasps. 

_Ah_ , Jon thinks. _Never left the surface before._

The mechanic’s eyes go wide in wonder for a second as he stares over Jon’s shoulder. The starlight illuminates flecks of golden brown in his eyes, like the brandy Jon’s grandma used to offer him on holidays. Then the awe is gone as soon as it came, replaced by renewed terror and something close to hysterical anger. 

‘Did we  _ take off?!  _ Are we  _ flying  _ right now?!’

‘We had to, didn’t you hear the shoot out with the pirates?’

‘I did, I was hiding here!’

‘Well of course we had to escape them!’

‘I don’t know, I just assumed, I-’

‘Oh shit!’ comes a sudden splutter from behind them as Tim appears from round the corner. He’s swaying quite dramatically, holding a red soaked cloth above his knee. ‘The cute mechanic’s still here! What was your name again?’

‘Martin!’ The cute mechanic reminds him, sounding hurt and angry and very distressed. 

‘Damn, yeah, Martin, sorry, blood loss-’

‘What are you doing in our cupboard?’ Sasha asks cooly from where she’s popped up at Tim’s elbow. A first aid kit swings from her hand where it’s planted firmly on her hip. 

‘I, uh, I was checking for repairs.’ 

Tim and Sasha seem to accept this, much to Jon's annoyance. He clicks his fingers rapidly in front of Tim’s pale face and scowls his best scowl into Martin's shifting eyes. 

‘You were trying to steal from us,’ he gasps, affronted.

‘Okay,’ Martin admits, putting his hands up and shrinking back a bit into the cupboard, ‘maybe, but in my defence that’s not as bad as kidnapping someone!’ 

‘We didn’t kidnap you, you’re a stowaway!’

‘I didn’t _want_ to stow anywhere!’

‘Then what, pray tell, are you-’

‘Enough!’ Sasha stops them. ‘Tim sit down before you pass out, Jon take the first aid kit and do some, I don’t know, some Jedi moves on him so he doesn’t get hysterical.’

‘That’s not what I do-’ Jon grumbles at her as he helps Tim onto a bench and starts rummaging for bandages. 

‘Martin,’ Sasha cuts him off, ‘I’m sorry but we can’t take you home.’ 

Jon takes Tim's hand and presses it against the bandages to hold them in place. Then he sneaks a look sideways.

Martin’s face falls. ‘What?’ He looks from Sasha to Jon to Tim and his eyebrows turn upwards in worry. ‘Look, please don’t turn me in, I swear I didn’t even take anything, my mum’s not well-’

‘Not because of the stealing,’ Sasha interrupts him, and glares at Jon for huffing in disbelief, ‘because of the pirates.’ 

‘They’ll be waiting for us,’ Jon explains as he wraps up Tim’s leg. He turns to face the conversation when Martin frowns, finishing his wrappings without touching the bandage. ‘If they aren’t flying after us. We can’t walk into an ambush and we don't have time for detours.’ 

Martin is staring at him, he realises as he finishes his sentence. Not that he’s not used to people staring at him, or the objects he’s moving without touching. People see Jedi and get curious, even if it's morbidly so. People have heard the stories. 

Martin is staring differently. He’s staring like he’s never heard the stories. Like Jon is actually a wizard or a demon or some kind of otherworldly freak and like no one else in the room is seeing this. 

His eyes are rooted to the bandage, wrapping itself around Tim's leg. Jon would almost feel self conscious enough to just do it by hand, except he’s even more prone to stubbornness when he’s self conscious, so he glares right back, using the Force to tie a neat knot in the bandage. 

‘Jon’s on some quest thing.’ Sasha is saying, though she must have noticed too that Martin can't really be listening to her. ‘So you’ll have to charter something once we can land somewhere and get the repairs done. Maybe somewhere that won’t sting us out of extra cash,’ she adds with a pointed eyebrow raise. 

Martin doesn’t even have the decency to look a little sheepish at that, still staring. Jon feels the urge to wave at him pointedly. 

‘How,’ Tim asks weakly from the bench, ‘are we meant to find a decent place to stop in the middle of nowhere without our hyperdrive compressor? There’s nothing around.’

‘I can fix it,’ Martin chimes in. 

He sounds thrilled at the prospect - it seems to be the only thing thats finally gotten his wide eyes off Jon’s hands. He actually shakes his head a bit, looks at Tim and Sasha very purposefully like he’s putting effort into avoiding Jon. Which is not an unfamiliar feeling but sort of a weird one this time. 

‘I can do the repairs myself,’ he goes on with a tiny smile, ‘I wasn’t lying about that.’

‘We’re not paying you seven hundred,’ Sasha tells him. There is humour in her voice that Jon could probably have done without, but she crosses her arms firmly. 

Martin does look a bi embarrassed then. His skin is a little darker than Jon’s - which despite being far from pale annoyingly betrays any flush more pronounced than a chill in the winter - so it’s not obvious. But the tips of his ears clearly stand out a warm pink against the dark curls around them when Jon's looking for it. 

‘That’s fine,’ he shuffles, ‘that’s... sorry.’

‘It’s fine,’ Tim says easily, waving him off. ‘We get it, no hard feelings.’ 

He’s actually smiling at the fact he’s picked up a stowaway who has tried, twice now, to rob him. And who has the wide eyes of someone who has never left his tiny planet or, it seems, even heard of the Force. 

He is going to be nothing but a distraction. 

‘Surely-‘ Jon starts to protest before he can even think of a proper argument. They all turn to look at him. He turns to Sasha - Tim is already far too personally invested. ‘Have you done the necessary calculations to include another person?’

She squints suspiciously. ‘What exactly is it you think we need to calculate?’

‘I don’t know,’ he scowls, ‘weight, provisions?’

Tim rolls his eyes loudly and knocks Jon’s hand with his uninjured knee. ‘It’s a six passenger shuttle, Jon, we’ll be fine. Besides,’ he adds, grinning, ‘having a mechanic around is a genius move. Non-stop repairs. Company. There’s literally no negative here.’ 

Martin smiles gratefully, shoving his hands in his pockets like he doesn’t know what else to do, and Jon makes no effort to hide how much he disagrees with Tim's assessment. 

  
  


Somehow, only half an hour after he’d heard shouts and screaming bullets and dived into a cupboard, Martin is now in the underbelly of the ship he’d been in the process of robbing with a wrench in hand and a world turned upside down. 

Jon can do that. Jon can do _ that _ , the thing that  _ he _ can do and never told anyone about. 

He might well be the third person in the universe who can do it, or just one of three Martin knows about, judging by everyone else’s reaction. 

There are more people, then, maybe. Now that’s a dizzying idea. Even if not there is Jon, who is more than Martin and the hazy memory of his father making paper starships circle round the ceiling. He is not alone, and he has somehow stumbled not just someone who  _ can too,  _ but someone who is open and unquestioning in it.

The image of it goes over and over in his head as he goes round and round with the wrench. Jon’s hand a few inches from the bandage, wrist soft, fingers slightly splayed and relaxed, turning gently as he’d wrapped it round Tim’s thigh. 

Martin puts the wench down softly. He holds his own hand out towards the wiring and gently twists the bolt tighter by rotating his fingers in the air. It looks the same, for sure, and his breath shutters a bit studying his hand against the image of Jon's using the same magical force. 

Yeah. It’s world-shifting. 

Martin is still so thrown by it that the confusion and excitement and fear and overwhelming astonishment that hums through him has so far drowned out the predictable (and deserved) tattoo of  _ bad son bad son bad son.  _

He knows. Obviously he feels terrible. He’s worried sick, guilty as sin and more than a little panicked about the fact that he’s so far from home and responsibility. Plus it’s all a bit tangled up with all his racing thoughts about him and Jon and the... whatever it is.  Because he’s doing the thing he only knew his father could do and now he's abandoned her too. Another deadbeat man in her life who ran off to use his secret powers.

He can only hope that work call home for him, so at least his mum knows he’ll not be back. He can only hope she’ll answer if anyone does call. If anyone notices he’s gone. She will, of course, when he’s not there with dinner on time. He can only hope there’s something in the fridge. 

But the fridge feels a million miles away. Guilt it feels theoretical and distant this time. 

Not to mention he’s  _ flying  _ right now. If he leans off the gangway he’s sitting on and touches the inside of the hull he can feel it shaking through his fingers. Everything, all of space that he thought he’d never see, and was honestly happy with never seeing. It’s terrifying to be honest. Just to be separated by the metal from it all. 

Maybe a bit thrilling. 

He doesn’t love the idea that that’s what has him feeling okay with this whole stowaway-slash-abduction situation. The fact that a tiny part of him saw the stars through the window, saw the tiny grey ball that was Moorch-ei Seven-Four disappearing in the distance, and was... a bit elated.  The idea of leaving home is mostly scary, but the way his heart had leapt a bit is even scarier. 

No, instead he’s very much focusing on being helpful. He can easily work with his mind elsewhere, but it’s the work that’s grounding his decision - well, his acceptance of the crew’s decision - to stay aboard and not turn back. He is good at being helpful. Working away and not disturbing anyone. He can actually do a good job of these repairs. 

And they seem nice. Despite him trying to rob them. They’re nice. Work is work, but it feels more like a favour when it’s for nice people, he’s discovered only today. 

He owes them a favour really, still feels a little guilty about trying to steal from them. He doesn’t normally, or not to any serious degree, not enough to stop. He needs the money. But Tim is friendly, and generous enough to do what seems like flirting with him. At him. And though Sasha is clearly the serious one of the two, or at least the one who takes charge when shit hits the fan, she’d been sympathetic as she handed him her toolbox - said sorry he’d be out of house and home as she’d shown him the engine room. 

Jon seems... less nice. Spending more time with him has only confirmed that Martin's initial assessment of  _ bit of a prick, could steal from him and call it even  _ wasn’t too far off. At least he seems less keen on them picking up a random mechanic for the ride. For his quest thing, whatever it is. That’s probably fair enough, Martin reasons, as he tightens a couple of bolts, with the wrench this time. 

Still. Doesn’t feel great to have quite that much disdain and bitterness on someone’s face when they look at him. He’s not  _ not  _ used to it, of course. But he doesn’t normally get quite so much fluttering in his stomach from the frowns of boys back home. Not that they’re not, well. Or that he’s not  _ looked,  _ but... People that handsome don’t tend to pay him much attention, good or bad. 

_ Ugh.  _ Anyway.

He shakes the aerosol of plastic filler a lot more vigorously than he needs to. 

It’s not going to do him any good to thinking that kind of thing. Pathetic, really. typical him to meet one good looking guy and go all jellied even if said guy thinks he’s dirt on his shoe. It’ll only make him more miserable once he gets home. 

Besides, the real mystery of Jon isn’t how in the stars he’s allowed to be so adorable whilst scowling, or whether he’s secretly soft under all that, which, very typically, Martin is given to imagine he is. (He had wrapped that bandage so tenderly after all, with a comforting hand on Tim’s knee at one point. Lucky bastard.)

No, the mystery is the fact that he can  _ move things without touching them.  _ And made it look like he does it all the time, openly, shamelessly. And no one had even blinked. 

What was it Sasha had said?  _ Do some Jedi moves on him so he doesn’t freak out.  _

With this last section of temporary repairs bolted down and covered, Martin swings his legs back onto the gangway and stands. The real mystery, he decides, is whatever the hell  _ Jedi  _ means, and how he’s going to find out about it without exposing his secret.

He probably won’t get a lot of time to talk to the crew, what with their hyperdrive jump imminent and a new port tomorrow. There’s no point wasting that energy trying to convince Jon he’s not a malignant or draining presence on the ship, and that he’s actually quite nice when he tries to be. It’s not like he can cook or anything up here anyway. No, if he’s going to talk he should probably try and make it useful. 

Fuck he’s bad at talking though. 

Okay, he tells himself with a little shake, back into the fray. 

He takes a last moment in the peace of the engine room, then grabs the toolbox and heads for the door. At the last second he pauses, only to tear off his bandana and glasses and pat his hair down where it’s still frizzy from the fog. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hehe hope u enjoyed this one thanks for readingggg love u all <3 commentę? pwease?


	4. Small Talk

‘Well,’ Martin starts as he steps back onto the bridge and they all look up expectantly at him. ‘Good news is you guys are still flying most of a ship.’ He laughs nervously. ‘I’ve set some stuff up that needs to dry and re-wired a few bits. You need new parts, really, but it’ll work, for now.’ 

Tim tells him that’s ‘awesome’ with a bold smile and pulls up a chair at the dejarik table that he’s sharing with Sasha and a couple of malts. 

It’s nearing evening now and looks like they’re finishing up a game. Jon is curled in on himself in the corner with a book, robe up over his knees. It feels a bit like excluding him to sit right by the others, but then again he’s sort of excluded himself. 

‘So we can make the jump?’ Sasha asks. 

Martin weighs it up as he sits down, a little away from the table so as not to interrupt the game or completely turn his back on Jon. 

‘You probably could,’ he reckons, ‘but I’d give it an hour or two to dry and, you know, sort itself out.’

‘I have every faith in my baby,’ Tim says proudly, handing Martin a bottle.

Martin blinks rapidly, until Sasha clocks him and snorts. 

‘He means the ship.’

‘Course! Course he means the ship. Right. I know that.’ 

There is a bit of a pause and Martin curls his hands tightly into the bottle, scraping his nail against the label. Tim and Sasha move a few more pieces on the board, sipping drinks and joshing each other over the gameplay. 

Martin knows enough about the rules to just about follow their play, but clearly doesn’t know enough about either of them to guess who’s aiming for what. Apparently Tim is doing what he always does, and she will beat him as she always does. He laughs and tells her that only works about half of the time, hence his refusal to change whatever strategy he’s using. She tells him he’s a stubborn bastard and she won’t let him hustle her into changing her own plans.

The moment feels a bit intimate. Not like they’re flirting, although they always could be, Martin’s bad at picking that up sometimes. But they clearly are as perfect an opposite and a pair as the different coloured squares of the board. Two halves. Reading each other’s minds almost. Their connection is as isolating as it is endearing. 

It’s the kind of moment Martin would normally duck out of. Give them their privacy. Plus, he doesn’t really drink. But then again he can’t exactly go anywhere. 

One night. Just make conversation for one night. 

The game ends and he bites the bullet once Sasha’s smug laughter has died down. 

‘So where is everyone from then?’ He asks. 

It probably comes out far too quick, forced. But Tim turns in his seat to answer like it wasn’t weird. 

‘Jon’s Naboo,’ he says, gesturing to the corner with his bottle and grinning, ‘if the hair didn’t tip you off.’ 

Martin has heard of Naboo, even thinks he might have had a few people pass through, not that he'd have been paying attention to them, or their hair. Probably had his head in a machine. He didn't know the hair was supposed to be something to tip him off, that he had an excuse to look at it. And he doesn’t know how exactly the... braids? Jon's wearing this evening even work. It looks like two strands and a lot of twisting and a lot of tying bits into the little sections that poof out like rounded diamonds on their way down to his shoulders -

‘My grandmother is from Naboo,’ Jon answers pointedly, not looking up from his book. ‘I’ve been from Coruscant since I was six which you know very well.’ 

‘You don’t have to be embarrassed,’ Tim shoots back in a mocking tone that makes it sound to Martin like he very much should be.

‘I’m not embarrassed,’ Jon insists, but Martin clocks the bitter pink of being joshed high on his cheeks. ‘Besides, you’re the one who lives on Dantooine.’ 

‘My parents live on Dantooine, I live-’

‘In the moment?’ Sasha chimes in.

Tim tuts at her and puts a palm firmly on the wall of the ship to punctuate his point. ‘Abord this beauty wherever the stars call me to - is what I was going to say before I was so rudely interrupted.’ 

Sasha sticks her tongue out. 

‘Martin, as you can clearly tell from her attitude, Sasha is from Kashyyyk.’ 

He and Sasha laugh at this with a good deal of beer spluttering before Martin can even realise it’s a joke. He chances a glance around and, seeing that even Jon has cracked a smile, thinks he might be missing something.

‘Joke,’ Sasha tells him kindly. 

‘Oh,’ he says stupidly. 

‘I’m from Shili,’ she explains. ‘Kashyyyk is where the Wookies live.’ 

‘Oh,’ Martin says, fake laughing awkwardly, ‘right.’ 

He has no idea what she’s talking about. There is a lull then that feels like the longest pause of his life. Bed is sounding like a better and better option. He wishes bitterly he could get there without suffering the sharp humiliation of getting up and leaving and wondering what they’re all saying about him.

‘So,’ Tim breaks the silence with a chipper knee slap. ‘Tell us about Moorch-ei. None of us have ever even heard of it. What’s it like?’

‘Um. Foggy,’ is all Martin can come up with. 

He makes a derisive sort of laughing sound and feels embarrassed that they feel like they have to pretend to be interested. Embarrassed that he has nothing better for them. No stories for them. He wracks his brain for anything, knowing there’s only work, the estate, the hospital, and the clouded, chilly beach once or twice for an indulgent sit staring at the sea.

‘I’ve not seen that much of it really.’

Tim hums. Sympathetically? Non-committedly? 

Sasha prods him for more. ‘People nice?’

‘I... I don’t know that many people,’ Martin admits. 

Stars above, could he possibly be worse at this? Has there ever been anyone in the world worse at something as basic as conversation? His ears feel hot and his hands are getting clammy. Swallowing sticks in his throat. Maybe if he had made an effort to know more people he’d be better. Not thought it was easier to let connection slide. Not been so... 

That thought ends with a slurry of familiar awful suggestions he is numb to but still push like pikes.

‘Didn’t leave anyone behind then? 

‘Just my mum really,’ he says. It sounds so pathetically small and guilty, to his ears at least. He can’t bring himself to look for signs of mortifying sympathy on their faces. If he could dissolve, if he could dissipate into fog right now and float backwards until the cloud covered him from everyone that would be amazing. 

For the first time since taking off, he misses the fog at home. 

‘No boyfriend, girlfriend?’

‘Tim...’ Sasha chastises gently. 

Tim opens his mouth like he’s about to defend his curiosity, or apologise. Martin isn’t sure which would be worse right now - to watch them argue or to reassure them both that he can take a joke. He jumps on it as fast as he can and is sure they look surprised when their heads snap back to him. 

‘No, um. It’s fine,’ he promises, painfully aware this is the most energy there’s been in his voice this whole evening. They probably can’t wait to drop him off somewhere, anywhere that isn’t their warm, companionable, connected ship. He fakes a yawn. ‘Sorry, bit tired.’ 

‘Course,’ Tim nods, bless him, ‘we’ll get out of your hair.’ 

Martin cringes. ‘Oh, sorry, I didn’t realise you-’

‘We’ve got one cabin,’ Tim goes on, waving off his worthless apology. ‘Jon’s in the other and he’s not a big sharer.’

Jon snaps his book shut and looks daggers at the back of Tim’s head. Not like he’s about to disagree though, more like it was meant to be a secret. It’s a very badly kept one - just how much Jon doesn’t want him here. 

It’s almost enough to entirely ruin his face. That scowl. Almost. 

‘You don’t have to move if-’

‘No worries,’ Tim smiles. He throws an arm around Sasha’s shoulders easily and she hauls him standing. ‘Party continues in the cool cabin if anyone’s interested.’ 

Sasha huffs an amused sort of laugh as she carries Tim off, still waving his half-full bottle. 

‘Night boys,’ she calls. And then the door is closed behind her. 

Martin coughs awkwardly, wishing like he’s barely wished for anything in his life that he could melt into the floor. But it turns out he doesn’t need to think of anything to fill the awful silence. 

Jon is already striding to the far door. He doesn’t pause, only looks back slightly as he’s putting in an entry code. 

‘Goodnight,’ he says stiffly, and then he’s high tailing it down the corridor before Martin can tell him goodnight back. 

And then he’s on his own. Which stings a bit when it was all so quick and so embarrassing. But the sting fades swift as a pinprick, settling into an empty cold that’s far more comfortable. 

The ship is anything but a familiar environment. Obviously Martin’s been on plenty of ships, but the air is much tighter when it’s locked in, and looking out of the windows to see stars speeding past, the long blue streaks of light casting his shadow flickering and unnatural around the cabin is entirely new. Awe inspiring, frightening still. 

Being on his own, that he is used to. And it feels like a cool balm after being so uncomfortable around so many people and being the centre of attention. He breathes, finally, without swallowing. Closing the blinds, fluffing up some pillows, and going through the motions of what he can generously call a bedtime routine, Martin settles into something private that feels almost like he’s not entirely out of his depth. His jaw relaxes now he’s keeping his mouth shut. He hadn’t even realised he was clenching it.

Under the blankets Tim and Sasha have left out for him (nice - they are so nice and he’s done nothing for them, nothing, nothing no-), it is a whole lot quieter. 

  
  


Jon is somewhere dark. Not dark like nighttime, wet-dark and cool, like underground. He cannot see his hands in front of him. Somehow this is not worrying. 

There are no footsteps to hear or feel through the bottom of his shoes, but he knows he is getting closer to it. A feeling. The Force in his chest - not searching but being drawn. Pulled. 

The pull takes him... somewhere. Where he’s meant to be, he knows, but he doesn’t know where or even where relative to where he started. It’s still dark. And the pull is too, he realises with a sour, dry feeling in his mouth that he can’t taste. 

The hand he can’t see reaches out. The Force reaches further and hooks into him. It is in control, and Jon feels air leave his chest in relief and knows he must be sighing. It feels as right as it always does, despite the darkness. Comfort, balance, discomfort swirls in his gut, in his head like a muggy mire. Like too much to drink. 

It’s here. What he needs. It’s here, and it’s calling to him. 

The dream is not a nightmare but Jon wakes up like breaking surface tension, gasping out of a freezing pool. The sheets are clammy against his chest as it stretches up and down and up again. He sits up on his elbows, blinking back the vague images of the dream-dark that are still stained across his eyelids. 

Why? It wasn’t fitful, it wasn’t horrible. 

He swings out of bed and pads to the bathroom. Splashes cold across his face and the back of his neck. 

He hasn’t had a dream like that before. Not ever. Oh, the Force has been there. It’s everywhere, it makes sense it seeps into his subconscious. Nightmares have been there too. Awful screaming visions of droid raids on Naboo and monsters chasing Georgie and blistering bullets of light cutting through the temple. Some of them based in truth, some imagined. Most a swirling mix in between. As much as anyone has, he would guess. Not fun. Nothing to write home about. 

But this is different. It wasn’t just a dream, that much he’s sure. It was something else. The Force had been real in there. The pull had been real. And something dark. 

He doesn’t even want to think about that last bit. That last bit means a failure so deep and sinful and dangerous he can’t think about it. 

It’s new. Extremely new, and it might be something to do with his quest. It might be the thing he needs to find, that thing he’d sensed in the darkness. Underground darkness - it could be a clue. 

Or it can’t be anything good. 

A lot of things have changed since the Council called him in and sent him off without a map. A lot of pressure and doubt and fear to ignore. But he’d been fine the other night, fine. Only one thing has changed since then, and it’s the detour-causing distraction sleeping in borrowed blankets at the other end of the corridor. 

No, it’s unfair to pin what must be some sort of disturbance in the Force on Martin. Not least because he doesn’t even seem to know what the Force is. Jon knows it’s unfair and a false excuse. But he is going to have to blame it on something. If he just stays steady and logical and skeptical and pins it on anything but a lapse of some kind on his part, then it’ll be nothing to worry about.

  
  


The next morning he comes in to breakfast early, hoping to catch Tim, or even better the ever-professional Sasha he’s getting to like quite a bit to discuss the day’s plans. It turns out all of them have had the same idea. He finds them both at their table, eating a far nicer breakfast than he’d thought it was possible for them to carry on board. 

Martin is stood over their glass microwave cylinder, poking at another dish with what looks like a screwdriver. 

‘Morning,’ Tim grins as Jon pulls up the third chair. (He feels a bit bad about stealing it, no doubt they were saving it for their new friend, but Tim at least would think it was more rude if he went back to his corner.) ‘Hungry?’ 

‘No, thanks.’

Tim tuts and knocks his elbow like he used to do in the school dining hall. ‘You’ve gotta try this, Martin’s treating us all to home cooking.’

‘Oh, I don’t really cook,’ Martin insists, ‘I’m just good at heating things up.’ He gestures lamely to the microwave, ‘you’ve got to let things stand and poke the edges a bit.’ 

‘It’s great,’ Sasha promises him, and he smiles gratefully. The expression is still a little bit sad and Jon thinks maybe he could eat, if only to stop everyone nagging. Then Sasha does nag him and as usual he changes his mind on instruction: 

‘You should eat,’ she tells him. 

‘I never eat breakfast.’

‘You don’t eat breakfast?’ Martin butts in, sounds aghast. They all look at him and he shuffles. ‘That’s not very good for you.’

‘I don’t like eating early,’ Jon says firmly, frowning a bit and wondering why he’s being scolded by someone who’s been around all of a day.  _ Why would he care? _

‘We don’t know what kind of energy today might need.’ 

‘I can still use the Force without breakfast, don’t worry.’ 

Tim rolls his eyes. ‘Don’t be sardonic, we’re just saying-’

‘It’s a traffic stop, we get in, drop Martin off, get out.’ 

Sasha tilts her head at him. Tim makes a face like that was rude. Martin fiddles with the glass lid of the microwave like he’s trying to pretend he can’t hear them. 

His hands are very practiced. He moves cautiously, not rashly burning himself on the edges of the dishes like Jon usually does in a rush to feed himself. It’s probably a mechanic thing, Jon thinks, logically minded, hardened hands. Or maybe he’s burned himself one too many times. 

Jon sighs. 

‘I just mean it won’t be that long until lunch. But maybe you’re right. I suppose I- one breakfast wouldn’t kill me.’

Tim knocks his arm again and grins as Martin tips breakfast out onto a plate, which is a relief. Obviously Jon doesn’t have the patience the others seem to for their hitchhiker, nor does he want to get as attached as they seem to be. But he doesn’t go out of his way to be an arsehole, not usually, not without reasons, and honestly he just doesn’t want Tim and Sasha to be mad at him all day. 

Annoyingly he does feel a smidge guilty that Martin only half smiles when he passes over the plate. 

‘Promise it’s not poison,’ he says quietly. The others giggle but Jon catches something bitter in it. 

Probably deserved. Ah well. He tentatively goes for a bite and actually it isn’t that bad. Sasha catches the small hum of appreciation that comes out very much without his permission. 

‘A mechanic  _ and _ a chef,’ Sasha sighs, sipping tea no doubt Martin  _ perfectly _ brewed as well. ‘Gonna miss having you around.’

Tim nods adamantly. ‘Yeah, we’ll be sorry to see the back of you.’ but he wastes no time in taking a long, appreciative look up and down after Martin smiles his same sad shy smile and turns back to the microwave to put his own breakfast on. ‘Or will we, huh?’ he mouths quietly to the table.

Jon scowls at him, at his plate, anywhere except the direction of the microwave. It only makes Tim snort a laugh which makes him put his fork down. nope. Still doesn’t like breakfast. 

After they’ve all eaten and Tim has waved down Martin's attempts to do the washing up (shiraya's word, does he have to be so aggressively helpful?), Sasha heads off to the cockpit to sort the last few bits before landing. She takes Martin with her, since she wants to check something or other about his repairs before she dives through an atmosphere. If his ability to fix spaceships is as good as his ability to heat up food, Jon wagers they’ll probably be okay. But he appreciates her caution all the same. And the quiet round the table when they go.

He’s about to head back to his cabin but Tim cups his shoulder before he can leave the room. 

‘You alright?’ He asks. ‘You seem extra tetchy.’ 

‘Fine,’ Jon replies tetchily. Tim raises an eyebrow at him. He sighs and tries again. ‘Fine, honestly. I just... want this over with. It’s supposed to be a straightforward quest. I- we’re not supposed to get sidetracked.’

It comes out with only a hint of feeling but that’s a whole lot more feeling than he really wanted in there. Tim nods and makes a sympathetic noise. 

‘Traffic stop,’ he quotes back, ‘it’ll be fine. We’ll be back on track in no time. I’m sure your Order can wait a few extra days.’

He pats Jon’s shoulder before heading off to join the others, but that does nothing to make that last statement any more reassuring. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> furiously googling 'space (noun) star wars' is the worst part of this au what the fuck do they call a microwave bitch ill kill u
> 
> hope u enjoyed chef martin and jons Vague Weird Dreams... owo plot ? in my au?
> 
> ur comments r giving me so much life n love and motivation 🥺😳 pls keep em coming i love hearing where u think we r going and what vibes hit good
> 
> xx


	5. Get In, Charter a Ship, Get Out

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ok so this one is a beast and could have been 2 chapters tbh..... but i wouldnt do u guys like that so... merry christmas <3 or happy december 22nd if ur not celebrating, this gift is still for u xx
> 
> also! there is some violence/action in this chapter. detailed warnings (spoilers) in end notes :) not so detailed warning is its time for jon to do some jedi typical gay little flips

Landing is smooth, though Jon insists on them all staying in the cockpit until the ship’s legs touch the ground like he didn’t trust it would be. Once Sasha starts flicking off buttons and Tim starts saying ‘told you so’ and smacking Martin’s shoulder though, he’s immediately striding out and down the corridor. Heading for the ramp, for the surface. 

Martin sighs. Whatever. Not the first person who couldn’t get rid of him fast enough. He knew the adventure wasn’t going to last long. 

As he follows Tim and Sasha down to the rear door, thoughts of failure and awkwardness grow fainter, replaced by a growing nervous curiosity. He’s going to step foot, albeit briefly and if only to leave it again, on another planet. The surface of a home that isn’t his. Ground that isn’t damp with fog. 

The ramp comes into view slowly at the end of the hall, the criss-crossed pattern in the steel dipping to reveal a sliver, then a square, then a stretch of new ground. 

It’s green - a temperate, muddy green. It’s slightly soft underfoot, but not wet. Martin’s boots press into it slowly and he’s almost expecting it to spring back. He breathes in fast and out very slowly, tasting the plants he’s never seen before on his tongue. The air is fresher here than in the ship, less stuffy and dry. But far warmer and far less humid than home. 

Looking up, he sees the others a few steps ahead watching him and hurriedly jerks his foot forward. The excuse is too embarrassing to give, but, luckily or not, they seem to all be able to read it anyway. He doesn’t want to catch Jon's rolling eyes, but actually when he instinctively glances past Tim’s smile and over Sasha’s shoulder they look still and not wholly unkind. 

He’s just deciding whether he’s made that up with his desperation, or made up all the scowls with his anxiety, when he steps out from the shadow cast by the ship and into spring sunlight that makes him blink. After adjusting to the light, he can see the port, just down a steep hill with half trampled greenery and boarded gangways, scattered around with campfires and makeshift shelters and piles of crates and loot. 

‘Right,’ Tim chimes up as they head down the slope, ‘I’ve had a look into this-’

‘We did.’

‘We did, yes, Sash, thank you for your wonderful expertise. And basically the regime here is, uh. Well. A little dicey. Bit of a free for all, apparently there’s some lovely gang warfare we should watch out for.’

Jon nods. ‘Right. Fantastic. I suppose we should be careful who we charter then?’

‘If we don’t want to send Martin home in a ship full of smugglers, ex-cons or Old Empire fanboys,’ Sasha shrugs, ‘then probably yeah.’

‘Got it.’

They’re approaching the rough and mismatched fence that surrounds the port’s centre now, and the way it seems taller as they approach up at them coupled with all this talk of gangs and smugglers makes Martin swallow hard as they step in front of it. 

The chain-link gate that bars them from port is only about chest height, and the guards who flank it look bored and lazy, leaning on it despite the fact it’s already leaning quite considerably. That doesn’t make it much less intimidating. 

‘We should get in quietly,’ Tim whispers to Jon, who seems to be taking the de facto lead on this. 

Jon hisses back at him. ‘We wouldn’t have had a fuss last time if you hadn’t-’

‘Hey, I didn’t say-’

‘Okay, boys, okay,’ Sasha cuts in firmly, quietly. ‘We get in. We charter a ship. We get out.’

At breakfast that had sounded horribly unemotional and fast, like handing over a package. Now Martin finds himself nodding along. Something about the way the mud seems so well trodden with the flyboys and hardened workers carrying cases around them, the way the guards chew some kind of grass and spit it at their feet - it all gives the air a tired tension. Like everyone here is fed up and ready for a fight. 

Jon strides up to the first guard like he doesn’t feel it. Or he does and he has that same sureness he’ll win the fight against someone taller that had made Martin immediately curious and worried for him back on Moorch-ei. 

‘Dank farrik...’ He whispers to himself, hovering back a few steps with Tim and Sasha and praying these guards don’t just knock Jon over with a shove. 

‘You got port ID, buddy?’ One of the guards asks lazily. The other idly fingers the trigger of his blaster. 

‘You don’t need to see our ID,’ Jon says calmly. 

Martin swears again under his breath. What kind of plan is that? If this is Jon's strategy he might as well cut and run. The man is rash to the point of insanity. Honestly Martin wonders that he’s still alive if he’s seen a lot of this strategy of combat. He holds his breath and watches, holding tight to his own fingers. 

The guards look at each other, chewing their grass and mulling that over. Jon stands up a little straighter. ‘You don’t need to see any identification,’ he repeats. ‘You will open the gate and let us inside freely.’

Okay, Martin doesn’t know what exactly ‘Jedi’ are supposed to have up their sleeves, but he does know this sounds like a great way to get your head kicked in. The guards consider it, their faces going a little blank. And that might be a good sign, but if it isn’t he can’t just watch it. Not when he’s actually sure he can help - 

He steps forward, taking the calming breath he needs as he does so.

‘Hi, sorry, just passing through,’ he says cheerily, trying to imbue that sense of easy confidence into his tone. ‘We’ve got ID somewhere, must have left it on the ship. But we’ve got a meeting that we’re a bit late to, so.’

The guards look to one another, seemingly nodding minutely. 

‘It’s alright, right, guys?’ Martin goes on, jovial and entitled as he’s ever sounded. ‘We’ll be out of your hair in no time. We come through without ID all the time.’

The guard closest to them spits on the ground with very little force, his jaw gone a little slack. ‘Alrighty,’ he says, ’no ID... fine, fine.’

‘You will open this gate and let us pass with our weapons,’ Jon tells him again, and Martin is honestly a second away from rounding on him and asking what in the stars his problem is. 

But then the guard repeats in a dazed monotone: ‘I will open this gate and let you pass with your weapons.’ 

The gate swings open and they both eye each other with suspicion and incredulity. Martin is pretty sure from past experience that he got those guards to believe him, it’s one of the few things he knows he’s good at. But he’s never been able to  _ make  _ someone do something. Plus, Jon is looking at him like  _ he’s  _ the one with experience, like he can’t quite believe that worked after Martin butted in to his plan. Whatever his plan was. 

Tim and Sasha don’t comment as they follow through the gate. 

Once inside, it’s a wide main street of muddy, dirt track down to the port's centre, overlaid with hefty metal gangways, filthy and trodden in with use. Over the heads and through the legs of far more people than were outside, Martin can see trails of kicked up dust and smoke from a take off. Boots clatter on the walkway, meaning everyone has to talk loudly. 

The street is framed with buildings old and new - stable mud-clay walls, wooden structures with corrugated iron roofs, mismatched extensions and makeshift canvas awnings hanging off. A couple have store fronts. Burly men in aprons yell down to them about the best prices for missiles and rifles they’re proudly displaying in cases. Another voice calls out promising beskar, which Martin thinks is not bloody likely. A squat woman is trying to persuade loiterers into her saloon from its front porch. 

It’s bustling. Busy. A lot of noise and bodies. Far more people than Martin’s ever actually seen in one place, let alone had all around him. He tries not to show it as they slowly head into the fray, the others ahead of him, following the main street. But it’s harder to think so clearly with so many people and he instinctively shuffle-jogs a couple extra steps so he’s closer to Tim and Sasha, just behind them. Tim side steps to let him in. 

‘We should stick together,’ he calls over the hubbub to Jon, a few strides in front of them. When that doesn’t work he leans forward and grabs Jon’s sleeve. ‘Oi, slow down. This isn’t a friendly crowd to get lost in.’ 

Jon nods like he forgot they were behind him in his laser-focus on the path. The mission. Always the mission. 

They press on together as a group, with Martin effectively huddled in the middle, which is at least more comfortable than brushing shoulders with strangers. The others keep their hands open, close enough to their weapons to be ready to draw at the sight of a fight, and he rather wishes he could do something useful. If a skirmish does break out he’d be ashamed to give in to the instinct to run.

Eventually they make it down the street and into the main port area, which is a large circular space, again all mud and crisscrossed with gangways. Spray-painted lines encircle the leg of each parked ship, different colours no doubt marking their class, designation, ownership. There are a couple of massive freighters, casting big shadows over the open-air port, keeping the space cool and the enclosed feeling portent. The circle is lined with storehouses, repair shops, and garages. All loud and busy still. It smells like spice and oil and hot machinery.

And in here, more than anywhere else, are the people who look like they’d shoot first and ask questions later. Who’d throw a punch at the first sign of an insult. Who’d take anyone else in here for a big enough bounty. 

Outside of one of these open hangers, there’s a rusty sign, hanging off an equally dodgy looking building. ‘Charter flights - shuttles - transpo rental’ it reads, with ‘OUTER RIM ONLY’, ‘NO DEPOSIT NO RIDE’, and ‘TAX ON COMMISSIONED BOUNTY NO EXCEPTIONS’ tacked on underneath. 

Everyone sees it at the same time, so everyone stops. Martin can feel them all waiting for him to say something, walk over. It’s really over then. The adventure and the terror. He’s going back for seven-four. If he can only move his feet. There’s a lot of people between here and there, pilots and cargo crossing back and forth. And once he gets there - what? Find someone. Talk to them. 

Tim clearly catches his hesitation. ‘I’ll head over then, shall I?’ 

Martin shakes his head. ‘It’s fine, Tim,’ he insists, trying to sound like it really is. ‘I can do it myself.’

‘Do you want to?’ Tim asks him.

As much as it pains him to need things so pathetically, he clearly can’t keep the  _ no  _ off his face. Tim smiles kindly and pats his arm. ‘Back in a tick.’ 

And then he’s off, talking to some perfectly friendly looking twi’leks and gesturing over. 

Sasha takes the opportunity to head into a garage next to them for the spare parts they need, after double checking with Martin that the holographs she’s got on her are correct. He nods. She knows they are, and he’s sure she’d only asked so he could make himself useful. 

Now it’s just him and Jon waiting by a wall, standing close together out of the way. Watching Tim haggle on his behalf, taking his own responsibility and doing it far better no doubt, is hard to watch for cringing. Martin looks away from it, and turning, catches Jon frowning around the circle, peering into the garages. Martin follows his gaze, but he’s not sure what they’re looking for. 

He just watches for a while, before it starts to feel creepy and he gets too curious. A sudden urge to ask jumps into his mouth despite his dread mood and comfort in their silence. He supposes he won’t get another chance.

‘What are you looking for?’ 

Jon jumps a bit as he looks back. He always looks so surprised there are other people nearby when he’s got that determined look on. Workaholic, Martin had assumed. But he recognises that he does the same thing sometimes, and it might be something else. 

‘Anything,’ Jon says, still with a confused frown, ‘information.’ 

It’s so vague Martin actually laughs for a second, stopping only when Jon quirks an eyebrow at him.

‘What?’

‘Sorry, that’s. Just so... unspecific.’ 

Jon folds his arms across his chest, looking very much like a petulant toddler. ‘It’s classified.’

‘Yeah, as if,’ Martin snorts. 

Jon looks down at his shoes, but Martin is sure, maybe projecting but pretty sure, that he’s pursing his lips trying not to smile. 

So he goes on. ‘Okay, but actually though. You’re on a mission, right? So what is it you’re trying to find?’

Jon looks up at him then, uncrossing his arms. He sighs slowly, arms hanging loose and looking sort of small. ‘I don’t know,’ he admits, and Martin has the sudden instinct looking into his lost eyes to tell him it’s alright. 

He’s going to, even though he knows he should probably still dislike the guy who so clearly dislikes him, even though he’s leaving, but- 

‘Guys,’ Sasha jumps in, returned from her trip and instantly sounding on edge, ‘don’t look now- I said  _ don’t  _ look, Jon- but behind you. We’ve got company. The bad sort.’

‘Everyone here is bad company.’ 

‘Especially bad,’ Sasha emphasises, speaking through the corner of her mouth. ‘Okay, look. But slowly.’

They turn their heads. 

Martin stares around and isn’t sure what they’re looking at. Then he realises Jon and Sasha are checking every entrance and follows their gaze. At most of the roads into the circular port is a new guard posting, and they all have some sort of look in common. 

Most of them are wearing pieces of armour cast in white plastic - one a chest piece and forearm plates, another shin guards and elbow pads. Others have the same pieces in a shining black with the coloured stripes of captaincy. Their boots are sleek black under flecked mud. Several are wearing hats of the same material, with sharp slanting lines and high chin straps. Others have white plastic helmets that cover their faces. 

Sasha pushes a little button on her wrist. ‘Tim,’ she mutters into the comms, ‘Tim, we’ve got imperials at a couple of exits.’

Martin doesn’t recognise the uniforms or the word, at least in this context, but it’s clearly bad. On the other side of the circle Tim lifts his own wrist to his mouth and his voice comes out tinny through Sasha's speaker. 

‘Shit. Shall I come back round or are you crossing?’

Martin surveys the exits, trying to count how many of them there are in the same uniforms. It looks like an exit about halfway between them is uncovered. Jon jerks his head at it Sasha nods. 

‘The West gate,’ she tells Tim, ‘meet us there.’

They are about halfway there when the first shout rings out. 

  
  


A proper brawl has broken out in the middle of the port when they reach Tim, one of the big guys in scavenged stormtrooper pieces pummelling a pilot into the gangway. The rest of their group have advanced closer, pointing heavy weapons at anyone who looks ready to jump into the scrum, which is a lot of people. 

Without saying anything - because they’d have to yell - all four of them slowly start to back away, fading past those with a vested interest who press forward to watch the fight. The crowd in the centre draws bigger, forming a messy ring of shouts. People are shoving and smacking blasters out of faces to spit and growl at each other. outrage. There are a lot of insults, expletives, old grudges being thrown. Bounty, jobs, and politics all thrown around. Core-slime, bucket-head scum, republic bootlicker, plasteel pig. You owe me five-hundred. 

As they pass through the entrance way and shadow turns to sunlight, Jon hears ‘Alderaan’, sees one woman crying angry tears as she tries to rip a white helmet off one of the burly men’s heads.

It’s clear this fight is mixed in messily with the personal on this planet, but at least he knows exactly where he stands on that one. He hopes, as they make it far enough for the crowd to seem like a wall obscuring the fight that started it, that she is able to smash that white plastic into the mud. 

The street they’ve made it on is quiet by comparison, with everyone either running inside to join the commotion, or sheltering inside. A few windows close and bolts slam as the four of them retreat, a bit faster now. A couple of children press their nose to the dirty glass, watching them. One of them points at Jon’s belt and he pulls his robes closer.

He senses the white-helmet coming round the corner before he hears the footsteps, before the others do. ‘Cover,’ he hisses, diving sideways into an alley. The others take a second to follow, and for some reason his hand finds and tugs on Martin’s arm first. 

He lets go as soon as they make it of course, positioning himself right at the corner. Tim and Sasha automatically take cover close, knees bent and weight low. 

‘Who are they?’ Martin asks a bit breathlessly, pushing his back into the wall.

‘Imperialist scumbags,’ Tim growls, ‘fucking losers is what they are.’ 

‘Idiots nostalgic for a facist regime that fell before their grandparents were even born,’ Sasha adds in a whisper, grimacing.

They all pause to listen to the sounds of the fight, gauging the direction of yells and boots on gangways. The nostalgic idiots and the gangs pushing them back are causing a lot of damage, it sounds like. All of their faces fall when they hear the first few pings of blaster fire. 

Jon closes his eyes against the headache of prediction. Without needing to look he can see the shooting getting dirty, bloody. No clear sides. Half of these gangs are made up of teenagers who somehow got hold of weapons, the other half are hardened spacers and criminals. There is spice on this planet, and fuel, and ships, and criminals. There are rules and taxes that don’t make sense to those who don’t want to follow and pay them. Plenty to make up excuses to fight over. Plenty of things worth controlling. And blood runs hot when people have the nerve to wear imperial uniforms. 

‘We need to make a run for the ship,’ he says, ‘get out before this escalates.’

Tim snorts. His normal comedy has all but faded - the sound purely derisive and his face set. ‘It’s already escalated.’ 

_ His _ mind is clearly made up. Jon looks to Sasha, knowing but needing another opinion - needing her sign off before they dive into the fray with weapons out. 

She nods slowly. ‘How many? 

Jon sticks his head around the corner for a second. ‘None that I can see, there were at least twelve.’

She shakes her head. ‘There were more.’ 

‘We can hold off more,’ Tim insists with a confidence that gives no choice but to agree. ‘I’d love to show some of these bastards up, frankly.’ 

Sasha grins, pulling a blaster off the holster on her thigh and cocking it up her shoulder, ready.

‘What about me?’ Martin asks, and his voice is pitched quite high in trying to keep it hushed. 

Tim hands him a blaster and he stares at it like he’s never seen one before. He tries the weight of it in his hands - it’s probably nothing compared to his years of tools, but his calloused fingertip takes a second to find the trigger and hovers over it nervously. Jon would probably feel the same - uncivilised and inaccurate as the things are in anyone’s hands, unless they’re an experienced shooter or have the Force to guide their aim. He doesn’t like them much personally. And he still doesn’t exactly relish fighting. 

‘You’re with us,’ Tim says simply, like it’s as obvious as an axiom, ‘we’re not leaving you here with these lunatics.’

Martin blinks, his surprise softening. Then he looks over at Jon, like he needs this decision confirmed, like he’s expecting it to be challenged. His expression is unsure, shyly questioning. He really looks like he thinks they might leave him, alone on a strange planet, in the fray of gangs and trigger-happy imps, and Jon suddenly feels a bit affronted and a lot more guilty. Maybe he has been a bit heavy handed with all his posturing and rushing.

He nods. ‘Of course.’ 

Martin’s face somehow softens even further and Jon determinedly looks away, back out into the street to assess their situation. He pulls his lightsaber from his belt and gives the hilt a steadying twirl in his hand. 

‘Do you know how to fire that?’ He asks over his shoulder. 

‘I know point and pull the trigger,’ Martin fires back, and the fear in his voice is completely overruled by a petty feistiness. He doesn’t sound angry, just riled up. 

Tim snorts, and Jon admits it is kind of funny. He likes that edge more than the timid looks and apologies.

‘That one’s reload,’ Tim is pointing out now, ‘It’ll beep if it overheats.’ 

‘Okay. Sorry if I’m a terrible shot...’

‘For fuck’s sake all of you - whisper,’ sasha hisses. 

They all shut up. From outside the blaster fire has gotten closer. Wood and terracotta smashes. Fabric tears. Steel clangs. People scream and yell, obscenities and panic in equal measure.

‘Jon, we need to go  _ now _ .’

‘Wait,’ he says, listening intently still. The crashes change direction - he can hear them more over his left shoulder now. ‘They must be taking the main street, we’ll go the long way.’ He fires up his blade, shining green through the alley. ‘Stay behind me.’ 

They creep back out into the sunlight, staying low, and head towards a front porch for cover. Slowly, slowly, they move from porch to wall, to behind a speeder, to a stack of crates that smell of machine oil.

They keep low, all listening, Jon trying to sense when it’s safe to move on. He glances over his shoulder round the crates as slow as possible, jerking back when he’s sure he can hear white boots on the dirt. 

He’s about to shush the others, but a second later Martin whips around, pointing his blaster back down the part of the street they’ve already covered. His first ever gunshot lands squarely between a stormtrooper’s shoulders, sending him sprawling into the dirt and crawling away from them. His second ever gunshot hits the back of the man’s neck as he tries to stand, knocking him back down and keeping him there. 

They all look, astonished, at Martin, Martin looks, astonished, at the barrel. 

‘Come on,’ Jon says quietly, for want of anything else to say. 

They keep creeping forward.

Eventually they make it close enough to the hill to be able to see Tim’s ship in the distance. The other side of the fence. Ah. Sasha taps on Jon’s shoulder and he really really hopes she’s got a better idea than what he’s currently working on. 

She gestures to another narrow side-street they can cover in while they regroup. Once they’re bundled in the sound is deafening, and only gets louder as Sasha leads them towards the other end of the alley, which opens onto -

The main street. The fight has clearly moved right down, gangs pushed back on one side by troopers and those who have seemed to side with them. Sasha stops a little way from the corner, pressing herself against the wall and surveying the fray. The noise of the violence is loud enough they have to huddle close together to confer. 

‘So?’ Sasha prompts. She jerks her head. 

Jon realises where she’s looking and nods slowly. ‘Right. We’re going to have to cross to get to the gate.’

‘There’s all sorts out there,’ she reasons, ‘they might be preoccupied with each other.’

‘So we don't shoot?’ Tim scoffs angrily, ‘seriously?’

She shrugs. ‘Might get away easier.’

Tim goes to protest and Jon has to agree with him. He shakes his head at Sasha. ‘ _ They _ will shoot. And either way - we might not know all these gangs and their politics, but we know we buried the First Order for good reason.’

‘So who are we aiming for?’ Martin asks, ‘all of them, or just the ones shooting us?’

‘The facist ones,’ Tim tells him, grinning. ‘Any white-helmet wannabe is getting blown away.’ 

Martin nods a lot faster than Jon would have expected, his palm cupping easily around the grip of his blaster this time. He looks to each of them, then to the fray ahead of them, then back. Then Jon realises they’re all looking at him for a signal. He breathes in, feeling his way through the path and their journey, reaching out with the Force to guide them. Then he opens his eyes again, sees them still waiting, and reignites his blade.

‘Okay, let’s go. Get to the gate.’

Bursting into the fray shouldn’t have added so much noise - the wall couldn’t have sheltered them this much. But the shouting and brawling and crashing and shooting is an immediate assault on Jons ears. He tries to focus, above all that, on the constant metallic hum and whooshing of his own weapon, holding it close to his body. 

As he had predicted, as soon as they turn the corner more than a few heads turn. They won’t see lightsabers here often, he guesses, but it’s a port - people have travelled, they know stories. A couple of gang members look away from each other to turn their combined power on him, and he wonders  _ how  _ exactly they can have  _ that much  _ of a problem with the Republic, with peace keeping. 

As usual he takes pole position, volleying back any shots at the others and giving them a clear path to return fire. So far no one has made it close to them - a lot of the shots flying over his shoulders are meeting their targets, the rest sparking off buildings and making their pursuers falter. 

Jon doesn’t look behind him, but he can hear Tim and Sasha calling to each other -  _ on your left, go high, watch out _ . Every so often, and judging by their tone they’re as shocked as he is to hear it, they’ll cheer or whoop. Tim sounds ecstatic when one shot hits a trooper clean between the helmet’s black eyes - ‘ _ nice _ shot, Martin!’

Jon chances a glance over his shoulder. Martin is still a bit behind the others but he’s mimicking them more in stance now, his feet finding their way backwards easily. He wears a determined frown, his jaw set. 

Then there is a flash-return of sudden fear and he yells ‘Jon-!’

Concentration shook back, Jon ducks the same time Martin shouts ‘duck!’. He jumps up immediately after the bullet flies over his head and turns back to the shooting, giving himself a hard mental shake. 

A couple of gang members in muddied orange have closed the gap. He’s sure he saw them beating up imperials earlier, but apparently they hate the Republic too. 

One of them, with rather intimidating looking tusks, makes it far too close for comfort. On instinct, Jon pushes his blade forward, but he slashes quickly and shallow, only cutting the man’s chest plate open and scratching the skin. He holds the blade still and horizontal as he steps backwards, warning that the next move won’t be so shallow. 

The man stares at the wound, growls and lunges forward. Jon quickly flips backwards and away from him, landing back to back with Sasha and managing, with space, to force the man backwards into a spice barrel. A couple of onlookers yell, cheer, scatter. Honestly, Jon can't think of anything that slick he’s pulled off before. He’s not sure who he's meant to be impressing, but he certainly is impressing himself. 

Behind him, a trooper in shiny black plastic tries launching himself at Sasha, but Jon sees it coming and flips over her to land right on her attacker. Hot light splices eagerly through the man’s arm pieces, spattering blood on the muddy ground. Another jump kicks him backwards, and Sasha finishes the job with a shot over Jon's shoulder. 

‘Gate!’ he shouts as bullets come their way again. 

She runs without protest, calling over the noise for Tim and Martin to follow. Jon scans urgently for anything he can use as a shield. They’re lucky this town is full of scrap, and he forces crates, barrels, spare parts into, well less of a wall and more of an obstacle course. It isn’t a very good shield from blaster fire, barely slows down those chasing him, but more importantly it puts a barrier between imps and the rest. At least it will help ensure less blood is spilt.

Thinking about the suffering of the innocent townspeople, seeing it and feeling it for them, makes his throws land harder, crashing and spilling a barrel of spice into the mud. His arms shake with it, and in the distraction he lets another trooper make it close. 

The man is half in white, a grimy black bandana low on his scowling forehead, white plastic covering his chest and arms. He seems to grow as he forces his way closer, pushing relentlessly through the volley of bullets Jon sends back at him. A headshot takes him out and Jon shouldn’t but cant help glance behind him to see who fired it. 

It looks like it was Tim, mercifully, sitting astride the gate Sasha and Martin are now over.

The guards have abandoned their posts and joined some other townsfolk, fighting with a gang of scrappy looking older people in the orange and brown jumpsuit of bomber pilots. A couple of children are chasing them, grabbing at their coattails, wailing. A woman emerges from the building they run past with a heavy pipe and starts swinging, keeping anyone and everyone back from her door with vicious desperation. 

Jon cannot help them all. He cannot. He keeps going backwards, towards the gate, towards the ship. He returns to his blockade, knowing it’s probably not the best idea but feeling fresh out of tactics. What else? What else can he do? The easy guide of the Force is fading with the confidence of before. He needs to concentrate. 

Looking around for anything to slow this violence down, he hears crying, loud in his ears over all of it. A child’s cry. His frantic eyes find a little girl on one side of the main street shooting fray, standing still and crying. 

On the other side of the road, the bar-owner leans over the edge of the saloon veranda, shouting desperately over the violence. Her face is red with tears too. 

A rival group of thugs, young wirey boys all in black with heavy belts, are trying to sneak closer round the perimeter. They threaten to cross right into the young girl’s path. One particularly thick-set imp fires on them, and she is feet away. The footprints around her are deep. She is jackboot fodder. 

From outside the gates Jon can hear the others screaming at him over the gunfire. It’s time to go. But whatever the others think, he is not a complete arsehole. And however many doubts and fears he wrestles under his pillow at night, he is not the sort of awful coward who will leave a child in a blaster’s path. He is on his mission to do good, to follow a creed. He is a human being whose ears hurt with the wail of a child over the clamour of conflict. And he is, or he will be, a Jedi knight. A protector of good. It’s what he’s always wanted to be. 

He approaches fast and violent, swinging green laser to shield her. When he scoops her up she screams, but doesn’t protest, and he doesn’t think his shushing will do anything to change that. How is she to know he’s a peace keeper? He sheaths his blade and holds the back of her head with his fighting hand as he jumps, straight and high into the air. Imps and guards and smugglers keep fighting below, only some of them pausing to gape up at him. 

He lands with a forward roll on the saloon roof, clutching the child to his chest to shield her from impact. A beam of green light goes whizzing past his forehead as he stands, and he hauls one side of his robe around the little girl to keep her close as he redraws his own weapon. 

A couple of his rebounding bullets find their targets, but he worries more about keeping the fire off him long enough to crawl on his stomach to the edge of the roof. Somehow, one handed, he manages to lower the still wailing child into the arms of her mother, who cries with relief into her daughter’s hair, barely looking up to thank him. He doesn’t wait to hear it, giving them cover as they run inside. 

Looking up from this height, he can see the others shooting from the gate, using the fence for cover. He flips down and uses their fire as an opportunity to sprint to the gate. 

As he gets there they take off running too, up the muddy hill with its slippy gangways to the ship. Jon vaults the gate and follows them. 

He keeps his eyes ahead, watching the others’ paths to find his own on the steep, uneven ground, and trying to sense what’s coming up behind him. 

Something. He feels something. Dread. He sees Martin turn just as he does, and leans sideways hard to let the shot whoosh past him. 

A few particularly keen imps are close on his tail, not slowing down as Tim and Sasha join in on the firing. They’re yelling threats, yelling insults.  _ Jedi scum _ . As if Jon hasn’t heard a lot worse. But he won’t take it against the others. It won’t be enough to just hold them back - they’re too close, too angry. Even one of them will stop them boarding. Could damage the ship even more. Hurt the others. 

Jon turns fully and plants himself firmly in the mud, one hand outstretched and ready, lightsaber held across his body and primed. 

The first one to reach him has at least a head on him in height even before the helmet, probably thinks that’ll be enough. Either that or he is just unlucky to get there first. The first swipe goes into the back of his raised hand, and he shouts in pain and anger, but only keeps coming. 

The butt of his rifle swings through the air, but Jon doesn’t duck, only slashes the weapon in half with a clash of sparks. It goes clattering into the dirt but the trooper doesn’t have time to fall back. He stumbles forward a step and the muddy white plastic covering his shoulder hisses as it melts under Jon’s blade. The sound is unmuffled by his helmet as he screams, falling face first into the mud. The air smells like smoking flesh. 

Jon isn’t quite cruel enough to finish the job through the man’s back. Or maybe he is cruel enough to just leave him to die. Maybe he’s still not quite ready for these missions - even if he does hate everything this man has chosen to stand for, he can’t be vicious out of hate. Maybe maybe. There’s a lot of emotions and doubts. He can’t kill with emotion and doubt - it wouldn’t be the Jedi way. 

So he doesn’t stab downwards, but stands over the fallen body with his saber held close enough to start melting a little dip in the plastic. He glares at the other imperials, hoping this looks intimidating enough to drive them away. 

Apparently it does. The two left back away slowly, keeping their weapons up but looking behind them for the path. Jon doesn’t wait for them to change their minds. He turns and runs, as much as he can run in the mud up the pitch of this hill. The others are waiting for him, just under the ramp. They ought to be sheltering inside, starting the engines. 

The hill is taxing on his lungs after all that flipping. Nearly there. He tries jumping from gangway to gangway. 

Then something pulls on the back of his robe, jerking around his neck and armpits. 

He ducks out of it, flipping over to face his attacker - 

Only he’s grabbed in mid air, a rough hand and tight pressure points of fingers in his arm. And then he’s on the ground, smacked into the hard mud on his back and the weight on his arm is doubled. He’s being sat on, he’s being pinned. By the imp he’d left in the mud. 

Struggling does nothing. The Force does nothing with his panic and his hands stuck to his sides. The glinting silver of his saber’s hilt does nothing but mock him, far away in the grass.

He’s aware that he’s panting, from the run, from the trooper’s weight on top of him, and sitting up is impossible. He turns his head away from that horrible white helmet, mud and blood smeared across it, glaring desperately at his lightsaber and willing it, pleading with it to come closer. 

Then hard white plastic shoves against the base of his throat and he gasps, chokes, feels grass and mud against his cheek as he’s pushed into it. Bullets start to screech over them. He doesn’t know where the others are, but it can’t be close enough. 

He can’t breathe. Someone screams his name but everything is blurry and he can’t tell who. He can’t move his legs to kick the plastic bastard off him. The pressure is relentless on his neck and the fuzzy silver outline of his weapon only trembles in the grass. Far away. Too far. 

There’s red at the corners of his eyes now and he can’t breathe he can’t-

Then the trooper rolls over, lifts off him and goes flying. In a sudden rush his throat is free. He gasps for air, gulping and testing his arms’ ability to sit up. A dull thud against his wrist turns out to be his lightsaber, zooming over now his hands are free and smacking into him where he’s not ready to catch it. His blinking eyes stare rapidly around for the others.

It takes a second before they come back into focus. Then he sees them. In a sort of V formation - Tim and Sasha both stood a few steps behind. They are staring at Martin, who is frozen ahead of them, wide eyed, with his arms outstretched and palms forward in Jon’s direction, breathing for all the world like he's just pushed something heavy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cws:   
> -descriptions of violence including gunfire, lazer sword slashing, fist fighting  
> -blood and blood adjacent wound description (brief, not too gory)  
> -children and innocent people in distress (no death)  
> -fictional fascism and space politics   
> -state and gang violence   
> -asphyxiation 
> 
> not me being annoyed at sw for always having the same antagonists and then writing imps into my au... listen... sw is about shooting fascists xx yes imo it's best when they have cool not too black and white politics and dont present the jedi as simply a universal force of good, so i tried to make this a bit more 'morally grey' and 'gritty'... but lets be real its still about shooting fascists and thats what we all wanna see
> 
> and damn... martin has the force... who fuckin knew.... wild.... 
> 
> happy holidays everyone i hope u have a good week and lemme know what u think ! see u in 2021! x


	6. M-Count

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> are midichlorians stupid? yes :) is martin a bit of a mary sue? perhaps. but consider this: i love him. and consider this: star wars is better when its not obsessed w dynasty and legacy within the force and having to explain why people are strong w it. hes gay is why
> 
> cws: description of injuries from the last chapter, consensual blood taking..?

Despite his hammering pulse and awareness that _everyone was looking at him,_ Martin’s first instinct as soon as the men in white armour had fled had obviously been to ask Jon if he was okay. Obviously, the man had just had his lights choked nearly out. 

But of course he hadn’t immediately got the chance. Of course he wouldn’t have been so lucky. He’d panicked, and now his secret is very much out. And it seems, just as he’d dreaded, to be a very big deal. 

‘You,’ is all Jon had managed as he’d got to his feet, staring and still gulping air. 

‘Me?’ Martin had squeaked, looking around to find Tim and Sasha staring at him too. 

‘You have the Force?’

‘What’s the force?’ He had asked, even though he’d had no doubt what they were referring to. 

His not knowing that had made them all stare harder. And now Jon is marching him down the corridor far more rapidly than Martin would have thought possible for anyone who’d almost been asphyxiated. The pace of it is not helping him calm down much either. 

‘Are you okay?’ He tries asking now, still a bit breathless. 

‘Fine, fine,’ Jon mutters, the words coming quickly out of his mouth like he’s batting away a wasp. It doesn’t sound cruel, just that he’s on a mission as always. 

This time the mission, no doubt, is getting to the bottom of Martin’s now ruined secret. 

His heart is pushing fast against his chest with the shock still, the way that great push had jumped out of him as he threw his hands desperately forward. Plus it’s very possible he’s being marched towards his doom. He’s lied to them a couple of times now and it’s been fine so far, and yes he did probably just save Jon’s life, but this feels momentous enough that his brain has switched into worrying. 

They could hate him for this. They could- he’s not even sure what the threat exactly is, but things are about to _change_ . Things are about to change _forever_ which he _hates_ and they could-

No one knows he can do this, except his mum and that has traditionally gone very badly. Logically it’ll be fine, right? It’s just a reflex for his stomach to go into knots, especially over this. It’s an instinct, a well-trod pattern in his brain, to keep this secret. No one has ever seen him do it outside of his own front door. He’s always done it looking over his shoulder. 

He must have done so now, hesitated as they reach the door to the medbay, because there is a gentle guiding tug on his elbow. It’s gone as soon as he jumps at the contact. it seems like such a weird place to be touched; he’s not sure anyone actually has ever touched his _elbow_ before. But it had been so casual, so maybe that’s just him. He regrets jumping as soon as the hand is gone. 

The engines are roaring into life now, and suddenly Jon is diving into the room and Tim and Sasha are caught up with them and everyone’s looking at him again. Time to face the music then. 

Martin breathes in and steps into the medbay, following Jon's speeding path of energy to the deep, reclining chair in the centre. An unceremonious little push on his shoulder lands him in it, but he doesn’t jump this time, only gulps down his still unsteady breaths. That nudge had been almost as gentle too. 

Jon paces over to an old computer in the corner and boots it up. ’You didn’t know then?’ 

‘Didn’t know what?’

‘That you’re strong with the Force?’ He paces back in front of Martin and crosses his arms. His fingers tap rapidly on the inside of his elbow.

Tim and Sasha hang back a bit, but they’re still staring too. 

‘I don’t know what ‘the force’ is,’ Martin admits, feeling very much the centre of attention and squirming a little in his seat. ‘But I did know I could do that. Is that-?’

‘You just used the Force, yes. It's what I can do. Lifting things, moving things without touching them. More than that, of course.’ He adds, batting his hand against the air like he’s irritated with the idea, dismissing his own inadequate explanation. ‘It’s how you've been lying to us so convincingly, the same way I got us past those guards. 

‘Oh,’ Martin frowns as he thinks this over. ‘I thought I did that.’ 

‘I suppose we both did,’ Jon says, and his voice is so quiet and heavy with thought that Martin almost wouldn’t recognise it. 

He looks up and is met with an equally quiet, heavy gaze that makes him gulp again. Not with fear, just a shock at its gentle curiosity that he isn’t at all prepared for. It feels like they’re looking for a long time, before- 

‘Wait,’ Tim chimes in, ‘so you knew you could do that?’ 

Martin nods. ‘I didn’t know anyone else could, though.’ He turns again, saying this more to Jon. ‘I didn't know it was a... a _thing_ until I saw you with the...’ He gestures vaguely around Tim's knee. ‘And I’ve not pushed anything that big before. Not a person-’

The words catch suddenly in his throat as Jon squats down in front of his chair and pushes his sleeve up. ‘You’re okay with blood?’

‘What?!’

‘You’re not going to faint if I take some?’

‘I, uh-’ Martin can’t think of any earthly reason why this conversation has suddenly become about his _blood_ but Jon is holding his sleeve up above the elbow with one hand and his wrist in the other and his tongue is in a knot. ‘I guess, it’s- uh it’s probably fine?’ He manages to squeak. 

Then there is a small pinprick on the inside of his elbow and he tries not to jump or look at it. 

He does look though, as a cool wipe that he hopes is antiseptic is pushed against the same spot. Jon is holding it with two fingers, and either it isn’t bleeding or he’s covering any bloom of red. It takes Martin a second of staring at his hand before he realises it’s waiting for him to take over holding the wipe. He makes a small ‘oh’ sound as he takes it. There is a little overlap in their fingers for a second. 

Then the second is past. As soon as the pain of the needle had arrived it is gone, along with Jon who is dashing up to the other side of the room. He plugs the cause of the spiky itch in Martin's arm into the computer and stares at it hard. 

‘The Force is in blood now?’ Tim asks incredulously, ’that sounds ridiculous. I thought it was a spiritual thing.’ 

‘It is,’ Jon frowns at the screen, ‘people don’t really use- but I just... Have to be sure.’ 

They all wait with bated breath for whatever the screen is going to show them, whatever jon is going to extrapolate from the numbers flickering there. 

The numbers stop and Jon inhales sharply. 

‘What?’ Tim prods him. Martin curls his fingers into his palm waiting. 

Then Jon says softly. ‘This is high.’

Everyone is silent. ‘What...’ Martin dares to probe quietly, ‘what’s high?’ 

‘Your M-count.’ 

‘My what?’ 

‘Midichlorians.’ 

Martin feels his face make about five different confused, scoffing, incredulous, irritated faces in the space of half as many seconds. ‘What the fuck are midichlorians!?’ he demands.

‘Don’t worry about it,’ Jon says cooly, still staring at the screen. 

Martin gawps at him. He rounds on Tim and Sasha for an explanation but they seem just as clueless. Tim rolls his eyes, a grin on his face like this is all very entertaining and exciting. ‘Better not ask when he’s talking science.’

Jon talks over him, presumably to shut him up. ‘It’s only confirming what we already-’ he frowns, sharply draws a breath. ‘Shiraya’s word, this... this is almost as high as mine.’

‘Oh shit!’ Tim exclaims, clapping his hands. 

‘Dank farrik...’ Sasha breathes, looking between them with a stunned, equally amused expression. 

Martin takes this in. translates it into something he thinks he understands. But there’s still a barrier there. ‘So...’ he starts, ‘that’s good? I’m... heh, sorry, I'm _good_ at this?’ 

He looks at them all, then dares look at Jon for some sort of assessment that is as thrilling as it is terrifying. Jon looks like he’s about to nod, but Tim jumps in- 

‘So he’s as good as _you_?!’ he’s asking gleefully. 

‘No,’ Jon snaps, ‘but he could be. Will be, with training.’ 

‘I’m...’ Martin breathes quietly to himself. While the others are celebrating and gasping and looking at each other excitedly, he only looks at Jon through the noise. 

‘Yes,’ Jon says just as quietly. 

‘Wow!’ Tim is practically jumping with joy, swinging eagerly between their eyelines. ‘Sash, we’re on a quest with _two_ Jedi!’

‘ _One_ Jedi.’ Jon corrects him sternly, ‘and one mechanic who happens to be... very Force sensitive...’ He tails off, frowning, his voice that same quiet raspy of thought. 

It isn’t a harsh sound, but his frown coupled with all this celebration that a little voice is reminding Martin _must_ be premature, _can’t_ mean change, makes Martin's fingers twist in his lap. He jumps to interrupt them. 

‘Don't tell anyone when you take me home will you?’ He asks, hating how pleading it sounds. He guesses he is pleading really, that twisting feeling makes feel urgent. Tim and Sasha turn to him, their excited looks fading. He feels bad for some reason ( _why, why does he feel bad?)_ and rushes to explain, to plead again. ‘It’s meant to be a secret and I-’

‘We won't tell,’ Sasha promises him. Tim nods easily, his face moving to something soothing. 

Jon doesn’t echo the sentiment. Instead he says ‘You're not going home.’

‘What?’ Martin forces his legs to stand him up again, urgent and shocked. ‘What do you-?’

‘Look,’ Jon holds his hands up, taking a step back that Martin mirrors, cringing at himself for being overbearing. ‘It’s not my first choice either,’ _(Oh he thinks I don’t want to. He doesn’t want me to.)_ ‘But you're too strong with the Force to go back to some backwater planet. So you’re coming with us.’ They all stare. ‘If-if you want to, I mean. Obviously, if you want to.’

Martin blinks. Considers this. No, not considers. Looks into his mind and finds it racing. ‘I- I don’t know...’ 

This has all been a lot to take in. Plus he feels a bit drained still from whatever - _the Force_ \- that had ripped out of him. And now to take on this quest on top of it. To resign himself to not going home again for a long time. 

Well. Not resign. The escape of not going home again dangles in front of him like a forbidden and terrifying fruit. He might love it. But it scares him. And he can’t, really. He can’t. So the choice is this, the Force, the quest, Tim and Sasha, Jon, everything terrifying that comes with them. Trying to make connections and failing and embarrassing himself. Or the equally scary, or at least sad prospect of going home. Forgetting all of this. Not being anyone. 

He feels a little unsteady on his feet from all this news, this thinking, this much attention, this much physical contact. 

He shakes his head. ‘I’m not sure yet. Um.’

Jon hums and Martin swears it almost sounds sympathetic. ‘You probably want to lie down,’ he says, ‘It’ll take it out of you if you’re not properly trained.’ 

‘I guess,’ Martin frowns. He can’t quite believe that Jon's actually being, what- _nice_ to him. And besides - ‘I mean you’re the one that- you’re okay?’

‘Fine,’ Jon repeats, and although Martin is pretty skeptical, this whole Force debacle seems to have rattled him more than their encounter in town. He opens his mouth to argue, but Jon sighs and goes on - ‘I suppose we could all do with a break.’

Tim nods. ‘Probably for the best. Nap, Sash?’ 

‘Oh, stars end, yes.’ 

‘Cool.’ 

‘You boys too,’ Sasha says pointedly, pointing with two fingers. She tugs Tim’s elbow as she starts to head out. ‘We’ll give you the quarterdeck,’ she tells Martin with a firm handed kindness as they leave. 

For a second then it’s just the two of them, and another second makes it awkward enough that Martin considers saying something else. Then Jon is striding out as well, so fast he forgets his too-long robes, scrunched up in a pile. 

Martin takes them with him when he goes back to the deck to catch some sleep, folding them neatly on the table. Something to do with his hands while his sleepy brain runs over and over the last hour. 

He tries not to notice the fact that he’s gently folding Jon’s clothes, clothes that he was wearing only this morning, but the thought still comes to him -

_He likes me now, maybe._

Not _like_ , don't be pathetic now. _He respects me now_. Because of this, because of the Force. Still. It’s a connection they’ve not had before, and a strong one, really, the keen little voice in Martin's head is chirping at him. To both have this. 

It’s just this, he tells it, he didn’t talk to us before, remember? But it’s a connection. One more to add to his list of the two others he’s only recently made. And it's warmer and far less painful than he’d always thought they would be. The way Jon eyes him curiously now, openly, rather than a suspicious glare. Like he's seeing something for the very first time. 

Martin hugs that feeling to his chest along with the blanket as he lies down. He thinks about that hand on his elbow, tapping his shoulder, circling his wrist and pushing his sleeve up and his face turns hot enough that he groans and buries it into his pillow. Yup, that’s done it. He’s in real danger now. And there’s not a lot he can do to stop it, not if he’s going to be going with them. 

Is he going to go with them? So far he’s been little more than a hindrance to Jon’s quest - except for keeping him alive, of course. It would be nice to help. It would be nice to see some more planets, as much as the first one had been terrifying. It would be nice... maybe. To have all the things that suddenly seem to be being offered him. And don't seem to be some kind of trap. 

Maybe if he helped, if they talked more about the Force, if their fingers brushed like that again-

‘Oh stars,’ Martin actually whispers out loud in the dark. He rolls over and stares at the wiring that pokes out of the ceiling panels. The little flickering of what he can only be honest and call a crush is warm and happy in his sternum, unconscious of any insecurity or pain it might cause. It’s almost enough to make Martin wish he had a notebook under his pillow, the one he used to keep there in school. Almost enough to think about writing poetry again. 

  
  


Jon doesn’t actually examine the extent of the damage done in the fray until he’s woken up from his post-excitement nap with a crick in his neck. The raw shock of discovery had quite put it out of his head. As well as, apparently, holding back the dim stirrings of a headache. 

He stands in front of the bathroom mirror and runs a couple of fingers gingerly over his throat. The bruising doesn’t look too awful, at least not yet. Luckily it’s not enough to flinch on contact, but pushing down a little against the hard of his trachea makes him suck in an uncomfortable breath. Ah. So not great. But he’ll live. 

Yes, he’s fine. Thanks to Martin. Which is still an absolutely insane new development to wrap his head around. Even if he’s honest with himself, and admits that, yes, he probably purposefully underestimated and ignored the man for his own... reasons, he never saw _that_ coming. None of them could have seen _that_ coming. 

It can’t have been an accident, then, the tech failure, landing on Moorch-ei for repairs. There’s no way Martin's just come out of nowhere, randomly, with that much power he had no idea about. Surely not. The Force has done this, Jon is sure. Brought them together across the galaxy and onto one spaceship. But why? 

Either it’s exactly what he supposes the best case scenario can be: he’s been guided to Moorch-ei to bring Martin to Coruscant. That’s where someone that strong with the Force belongs, not lost out past the outer rim. Taking him to the Jedi would be the balanced thing to do, surely. What else _is_ there to do?

But Jon is suspicious, as always. There’s something niggling in the back of his mind telling him it could be a trick. Or a test. Some kind of temptation? 

Hmm. That’s certainly an interesting direction for his brain to take. Everything is very confused and scrambled and a little warm. He splashes cold water across his face.

Shouldn’t get sidetracked really. Martin is a massive change of plans, and as much as Jon's grateful for his life, and happy to have another person who’s useful in a tight spot around, he is still as big a distraction as ever. Bigger, even, now he’s impossible to ignore. The trial wasn’t to bring a force sensitive mechanic back to the council, it was to find the artefact. Whatever it is. 

Jon sighs. It would be useful to have someone to talk to really. He checks the time - it feels like evening to him, but it’s still not late since they’ve all taken their naps in the afternoon and it had still been early when they set off. What time is it back home?

He sets up a hologram and tries calling Georgie. 

She doesn’t pick up, so he’s about to call it quits and maybe see if the others are awake. His stomach rumbles and he wonders if Martin's up yet (so he can get to the kitchenette without waking him, not because-), but then the hologram beeps into life. 

Georgie smiles at him in blue wobbly light. Her buzzcut has grown out a bit since he last saw her - it’s getting bristly again. She tucks her long thin braid behind her ear and waves with both hands. 

‘Hello there, fellow padawan learner,’ she grins with a hint of surprise (he was always bad at calling - either distant for days or talking every night for hours when one of them was off on a mission). ‘Or should I be calling you ‘master’ yet?’

He cringes. Alright, he does lean far more Old Way than she does, but _that_ ancient fashioned nonsense is something they are both glad to be rid of. ‘Hello Georgie. And no, we’re still out in the middle of nowhere.’

‘Aw, no luck? Maybe you’ve just gotta- oh shit,’ she gapes, leaning forward so her face grows in front of him. He shuffles back instinctively and wishes he’d had the good sense to throw a scarf on. ‘Jon, what happened to your neck?’

He sighs. She’ll never believe a lie. ‘Some imp wannabe sat on me.’

‘On your neck?’

‘No, that would be a choke hold.’

‘Ouch,’ she grimaces, peering closer. ‘Son of a mud scuffer, that sounds bad.’

He shrugs, pulling his shoulders up high and determinedly not wincing. ‘I’m fine.’ 

To cover the way she’s still trying to get a good look at the bruising, and to try and relieve some of the pain in his head, he tugs his hair loose and pulls it subtly around his shoulders. Running his hand through it will distract them both, hopefully. 

Georgie sighs, but he recognises it as a fond sound. ‘You know I will never believe you when you say that.’

‘Really,’ he insists, then goes on over her raised eyebrow. ‘I sort of... well we’ve picked up an extra passenger.’

Georgie’s eyes go wide with curiosity. ‘Oh?’

‘A mechanic. He stowed away, accidentally. He managed to... well. He sort of _forced_ the guy off me.’

Somehow, her eyes get even wider. Her audio clips a little as her voice jumps up in excitement. ‘No way, this guy has the Force?’

‘Yeah, I know!’ Jon drops his hair in incredulous excitement, his voice getting faster and dropping its sighs with someone to match his energy. Someone who understands that this is _insane._ ‘And his M-count is... I mean, let’s just say high. Really high. It’s ridiculous really, no training, he’s never even _heard_ of the Jedi, or the Force, which- I mean how in the stars? He clearly doesn’t have even a basic understanding of what he’s doing, but he threw an entire trooper off me just out of nowhere!’

‘Wow,’ Georgie breathes. ‘That sounds exciting. So he doesn’t know anything? I bet he’s winding you up, huh.’

‘Not... A bit, I suppose. I mean it’s absurd, not knowing about the _Jedi._ And he’s a bit sarcastic.’

‘Ohhh,’ Georgie nods slowly. She has the look on that says she’s about to tease him. ‘Is he cute?’

Jon groans dramatically at her and she sticks her tongue out. ‘No, seriously, why is that always everyone’s focus? Tim and Sasha seem to think so. Anyway-’

‘You don’t think so?’

‘Georgie, I called for advice, not anti-code gossip.’

‘Anti-code,’ she scoffs. ‘Sure, what’s up? If you’re coming to me for advice I know you must be desperate.’

He sighs. He doesn’t love admitting failure by any stretch of the imagination, but he can’t lie to her. Admitting it grates against his teeth. 

‘I don’t have anything,’ he tells her shoulder, ‘I’m trying to _see,_ to _know_ where I’m meant to be going but... nothing. I had a weird dream, it was definitely _something_ to do with the Force, but it was nothing concrete. I just... feel like we’re going nowhere fast. All I’ve achieved so far is finding Martin.’

She hums. It’s a rational sound - it means she’s thinking, looking for a solution for him. It’s frustrating sometimes, her need to fix things when he’s feeling sorry for himself, but he knows from their years together that it isn’t an unsympathetic noise. ‘Well maybe that’s the win? Seems like he might be able to help?’

Well, that wasn’t really what Jon was hoping to hear. ‘I certainly hope so,’ he huffs, ‘otherwise we’re just carrying extra weight.’

‘Don’t be a dick, Jon, that’s one of ours.’

‘I am not being a dick! We’re bringing him with us.’

‘Well...’ Georgie sings songs, drawing out the sound, ‘then why don’t you try reaching out together with your feelings?’

‘Please take this seriously.’

‘Sure, sure,’ Georgie lets her chuckles fade. ‘Okay, serious advice? You need someone who knows their stuff. Knows where valuable stuff is hidden and who wants it.’

‘So, what?’ Jon asks. She tilts her head and he gasps. ‘A bounty hunter?!’

She shrugs. ‘Maybe. I know Melanie knows a few good ones.’

Jon sighs again. ‘Why does your girlfriend know so many bounty hunters?’

‘You’d like her.’

He hums skeptically. 

‘Well I’ll pretend you said you did. Maybe I can persuade her to get some information. If you ask the right person, they just might know?’

‘Fine,’ he allows, ‘you’re right, I’m desperate enough. We’ve been distracted too long already.’

‘Cool, I’ll ask Melanie. But Jon, maybe don’t go telling the poor mechanic he’s a distraction?’

‘I haven’t!’ He insists, making a choking defensive noise in his throat. ‘I’m not a complete prick, Georgie.’

She makes a doubtful noise, then grins. ‘Wouldn’t put it past you. Did you say ‘thank you’?’

‘Yes,’ he lies on instinct, then thinks and cringes, making a mental note to do that. 

She laughs. ‘Maybe do that. And you should probably reword the whole distraction thing. Sounds a bit...’

‘A bit what?’ 

‘Well that’s what you used to call me, isn’t it? A _distraction_. When you thought I was going to get you kicked out of the Order for kissing related crimes.’

‘I’m hanging up now,’ he calls over her laughing, but she beats him to it. 

He sighs as he closes the computer down. 

It’s good they can laugh about it now, their past that had caused so much pain at the time. His fierce insistence that they both needed to grow up. Her fury that all they’d done together for the past two years had been growing, and he was going to throw it away for- _my career Georgie, our way of life, can’t you see- can’t you?!_ Yes, it’s good she can tease him about it now without resentment. Good that he can hear it and roll his eyes and not fly into being defensive, snapping back. Good that they can talk about her secret girlfriend without any resentment or jealousy or disapproval.

But the insinuation is ridiculous. More than ridiculous. Absurd. It is Martin’s _existence_ that is the distraction anyway, not anything about Martin himself. Jon will privately acknowledge he isn’t up to a lot of things, but he _will_ say he is professional enough not to get distracted by, what, the physics of curls or well made breakfasts or... anything like that. 

Progress. They will make progress, hopefully, with Melanie’s help, much as he resents needing it. And that, at least, is something to help his little headache. Maybe some dinner wouldn’t go amiss either. 

Before heading out to the quarterdeck, he settles on the floor to ignore his stomach a while longer and meditate. It’s odd - something so massive has changed, and yet, reaching out into the Force to calm him, he can’t feel what ought to be the pervasive presence of Martin. He can feel Martin, obviously, but he can feel everything. He can feel Tim and Sasha the same way. He ought to be able to _reach_ Martin. Not that he’s looking for him, but someone that powerful ought to be connected in the same way he is. 

He sighs. Clearly the situation is even more confusing and outlandish than he thought. Whoever ends up training Martin is going to have their hands full explaining that he’s about twenty-five years behind on his meditation. That’s if they agree to take him, despite his being far too old really. 

That starts a lot of questions, so Jon sighs and meditates some more to calm them down. 

Then, headache largely gone, he braids his hair loosely and considers putting it up, standing in front of the mirror and tilting his head for a minute before finally deciding to leave it down. That way it does something at least to cover his neck. The last thing he wants to deal with is more people asking if it’s okay; he’s not a very good liar. He looks a second longer, disapproving of his own vanity but hating to look ruffled in anyway. Impulsively he takes his padawan braid and crosses it over his forehead, pinning the end of it over the other side so the colours rest over his ear.

A reminder, more to himself than anyone else who he doubts would care, that he has done a lot of this before. That he can do this. That he knows more than any of them, more than Martin. In case there was any doubt. 

Besides, he likes how it looks there, even if it is a bit more Naboo than it is Jedi Old Way. One little break with tradition won’t kill him, Georgie had said when he’d almost cried about the prospect of shaving his head. Call this his one little indulgence. 

He wonders dimly what Martin would look like with his hair buzzed, and quickly identifies the weird feeling it gives him as _mourning._ He is even quicker to shut it down as he nips out into the corridor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> boys are gay !!! 
> 
> also: new addition to the tags, i realised some people maybe dont know that 'attachment' is 'forbidden' for the jedi.... rest assured happy ending is on the cards. but repression first :-) if u hadnt clocked it yet this fic is at least 50% a manifesto on why the jedi suck so bad
> 
> and yes. me lampshading that calling jedi 'master' is CRINGE af and i will not be doing it esp w it being u know. el*as. 
> 
> hope this chapter was worth the wait it is p long tbf. ur comments sustain my lifefuel in this national lockdown part 3 <3 x


	7. Demonstrations

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello! it has been a while ! this chapter is long and a bit all over the shop and idk how much i like it and not much happens but! the boys r gay .. so <3
> 
> good news is i have written most of the next two :))

The rest of them are all together, sitting in quiet that feels less awkward and a bit more companionable, if Martin’s being optimistic, when Jon decides to join them.

They all look up when the door lifts open, which evidently from Jon’s expression he was hoping they wouldn’t. 

Martin had been going to say  _ hi, did you sleep well?  _ He had got that plan down. Only he doesn’t; he starts to and then suddenly puts his needle down and notices - ‘Oh, your neck looks bad.’

Jon turns his head away slightly like that’ll stop anything. He’s wearing two plaits over the front of his shoulders but the bruising is still pretty evident if Martin looks past them. Sasha puts down the small navi-computer she and Tim have been pouring over to peer at him too and he sighs. 

‘It’s fine.’

Martin feels himself make an  _ as if _ face before he can school it into pure sympathy. ‘Really?’ He presses, ‘It doesn’t look alright. Do you need something for-‘

‘It’s fine, Martin.’ Jon snaps. Then he sighs again. ‘I actually, uh. I-I wanted to say thank you.’ He rubs the back of his neck awkwardly as he stammers this, and a few wispy hairs come loose from their place. ‘I realise I... forgot, in all the uh. Excitement.’

‘Oh,’ is all Martin can think to answer to that. 

He realises his mouth is open and more than a bit dry. Of all the crazy things that have happened today he had  _ not  _ been expecting a thank you. He looks away, realising he’s probably been looking too long, and finds Tim and Sasha staring. That doesn’t help. He reaches for something else to say and finds - 

‘That’s okay. I’m just- just glad I could help.’ 

Jon looks back at him to nod sagely, as if that’s that done and a weight is lifted. Then, in the following quiet, he looks down at the soft heap of brown fabric in Martin’s lap and his eyes narrow again. Ah. 

‘Are those my-’

‘Yeah,’ Martin cuts him off, unable to bear the thought of him finishing that sentence. His face feels as hot as an engine. ‘Sorry. You left them in the medbay so I just sort of-’ he trails off sheepishly. 

‘What are you doing?’

_ A good bloody question.  _ ‘Well,’ he tries to explain, lifting the needle and the stretch he’s already hemmed to clarify, maybe shorten this cringing, awful process of  _ explaining _ . ‘You got trod on. And I noticed they were a bit long, so... Sorry,’ he repeats, laying down his needle and bundling the robes up to hand them back. ‘I should have asked.’

Jon blinks very slowly, eyes narrowing. Perhaps a little suspiciously, something is telling Martin, but it looks mostly like he’s just trying to take this in. It’s probably a bit weird to be fair to him, to find their stowaway who saved his life now  _ re-hemming his stolen clothes.  _

‘No,’ he says, heavy and drawn out, ‘it’s... it’s fine.’ 

He seems to consider this a moment longer, then nods awkwardly and heads to the kitchenette, to get water, apparently. More likely it was an escape. Tim and Sasha resume their conversation quietly and Martin supposes he’ll just... go back to taking these robes up. Even though he’s been caught. 

He thinks that though as he spreads his fingers through the air to lift the needle again, turns his wrist in smooth figure-of-eights to pull it, untouched through the fabric. Thinks on gratitude and shame. It would normally be one of the two that would make him do something like this - a favour, an offering.  _ Please don’t be cross _ , it would say,  _ please think I’m good. _ If he’s being honest with himself about his deepest most pathetic thoughts it’s really  _ please love me, please don’t leave me. _

This isn’t that, really. Well, it’s a bit  _ I hope you like me,  _ but it isn’t simply gratitude and it isn’t grovelling. What he said was true: he had really just thought it would probably be nice if Jon didn’t have to avoid tripping over his own feet or getting trodden on in the middle of a fight. Martin wants, he recognises, to make things easier for him. To keep him safe. 

It’s not something he thinks Jon would do for himself, really. No - he throws himself into open fire and skips breakfast. The others see it too, and clearly they nag him about it, but they don’t actually make him, or do it for him. Maybe they would, Martin's not trying to act like he’s some  _ saint  _ who’s  _ better  _ than Tim and Sasha. But what he is very stubborn in making people look after themselves by doing the heavy lifting for them. 

It’s quite nice to realise that he’s doing it for reasons that are almost ( _ almost,  _ he can’t deny the way  _ thank you _ thrills him) selfless this time. Or for good reasons, at least, he thinks to himself as he knots his thread. That’s not entirely new, but it is different to the bits of table cloth and clothes he’s fixed for himself or his mum before. 

Plus he never normally has an audience for this sort of thing; mending, working. That’s new as well - not hiding his shamefaced attempts at pleasing people away. 

It’s the same with the Force. All the times he’s secretly used it to help him cook, repair things, adjust beds and pillows, and any time he was ever seen it had made him grimace, knowing the rejection that was going to hit. 

That residual anxiety is still tapping him on the shoulder - disbelieving that he does this in public now. It’s fine, he tells it again with the tiredness of a parent or a teacher dealing with the same issue gently over and over. He tries to focus on the gentle up and down of the needle, the waft and wave of his fingers through the air. But he can’t help looking up slightly at the sound of a cup against the table. 

They are all watching him. 

Well, okay, Tim and Sasha are still murmuring and half laughing gently about something or other, but the way they’re sat next to each other on the window seat opposite him does allow them a good view. There is a relaxed look on both their faces as their eyes as they follow the rhythmical moves, which is quite nice, Martin supposes, but is still very strange. It being nice is especially strange. 

Jon is watching too, which he expected honestly. After all it is  _ his  _ clothes undergoing this process, he probably wants to keep an eye on it. Plus the whole Force thing - he’d seemed so captivated by the way Martin had panic thrown that trooper, the way his blood is apparently full of something special. But that doesn’t stop it feeling intense and hot and making Martin tug the thread a bit too hard. 

The needle flops into his lap and he picks it with a clumsy hand. Sasha blinks like the pendulum she’s been watching has suddenly got stuck. 

‘This is weird,’ he says by way of apology. It comes out like an awkward laugh. ‘You guys watching me.’

He pulls the needle up past his face without touching it, wondering, proving maybe that he still can. Past the thread Tim smiles. 

‘Stage fright?’ 

Martin frowns, shrugs. Not quite that. More than that, really. He pulls another stitch through, puzzling through how he can answer that. If he even needs to. It's a question right? If he’s going to. The whole thing - this quiet evening, the softness of socialising, them asking, being interested in him still, Jon’s robes balled up in his lap - it all feels very intimate in a way that would probably be gentle if he were more used to it. 

They are asking, though. And he does like them. He supposes they might already have guessed the truth anyway - given the way panic had jumped out of him in the medbay.  _ Please don’t tell anyone.  _

‘No one’s ever seen me do it before the other day,’ he tells them quietly, focusing on the needle so that Jon's face stays blurry as he says it. 

That doesn’t last long. Jon leans forward slightly in his chair, tilts his head and Martin's eyes immediately snap focus to his curious expression.  _ Damn it.  _

‘You hid it?’ He asks, and his voice isn’t as soft as earlier, but not as harsh as it was at the start. Progress maybe. ‘Why?’

Martin falters a bit in how best to explain that one. Probably best not to. ‘Guess I just never wanted the attention.’

Tim and Sasha nod, though more like they’re accepting it as an excuse than they believe him. Martin doubts his lying is going to work so well with them now that they know he can do it. Now that he’d feel pretty bad lying to them. Now - a terrifying thought - that they know him a little.

It doesn’t look like Jon is going to accept that as an answer though. He opens his mouth, frowning, clearly going to ask  _ why really _ . 

Instead of freezing up and letting him, Martin makes himself say something. Something innocuous really, more of his expert level small talk that makes him cringe to analyse. 

But Tim clearly catches him trying to get off the topic, or he just likes talking, and he jumps in to help. Soon enough it's a back and forth with him and Sasha, easy and more natural than Martin could have made it. 

He settles for laughing quietly along with them and getting back to his task, trying to ignore the fact he can still feel Jon looking at him, and trying harder not to think anything of that. 

The little zip of light blaster shots and the hum of his saber do not not bring the same calm as meditation, but it is always comforting to practice. It’s routine, it’s  _ doing something.  _ Jon closes his eyes even under the dark of the cloth and, breathing slow through the exertion of it. There is a short silence and he reaches out blindly for the next round of fire. His arms jerk without forethought to block the unseen beams, again and again until his head is empty and one step ahead of the remote. 

When he pulls the cloth from eyes his muscles are aching pleasantly and his hair is a little sweaty around his forehead. He thinks absently about taking a shower, turning towards the bathroom. 

Then he notices the door is open. And a shock of dark curls is peering round the frame. 

He almost jumps out of his skin. 

‘Sorry!’ Martin rushes, ‘sorry, I didn’t mean to spy.’

‘You were quite blatantly spying,’ Jon grumbles, stowing his blade. The fact he hadn’t felt Martin there is honestly rather unsettling - he’s always so tuned in to the Force when he’s training blind, and yet still, nothing from the doorway. 

‘Sorry. It’s still weird, you know. To see someone just... do that.’

‘This?’ Jon gestures to the still floating remote. ‘Training aid.’

‘You still practice?’

It is very hard not to scoff at his naivete. Oh the council are going to have a field day explaining training routines to him. ‘Every day. The Force takes discipline to master.’

He purposeful skates admitting that he’s still  _ in  _ training. 

Martin hums like he’s considering this. His eyebrows knit together and he shuffles a bit on the threshold before deciding on a question. 

‘I still don't really know what that is?’ He admits, ‘I mean,’ he goes on, tutting to himself ‘I know what it is, obviously. I know I can do it.’

‘Use it,’ Jon corrects him instinctively.

‘Huh?’

Jon sighs. He hadn’t meant to sound so sharp - it’s not like Martin's trying to ask obvious questions. They aren’t obvious to  _ him _ , of course, and as insane as that seems, Jon had meant to be patient about it. Until, of course, he hadn’t been. He tries again, a bit more gently. ‘Not do it, use it.’

‘Okay...’ Martin nods slowly, ‘and that's what you guys do? The Jedi. There are more of you and you use it? The Force?’

‘Yes,’ Jon almost smiles at that one, ‘that's sort of what we're famous for.’

He’d half expected more sheepish confusion, but instead Martin rolls his eyes at the semblance of teasing. ‘Oh sorry,’ he scoffs, ‘didn't realise I was talking to a celebrity.’

Jon does laugh at that - far louder than he’d even meant to. Strangely, it’s this more than his snapping at stupid questions that makes that dark pink appear on Martin’s ears. 

His questions can’t have been that stupid, Martin reasons, because he ends up hovering in Jon’s doorway for a while longer, then longer still. Then he eventually makes it into sitting awkwardly on the bottom bunk, which is mercifully made and unswept in, as Jon shows him how the little training droid works, how he can pick up and move objects blindfolded, slow and steady, how he can throw them fast as a bullet. Flyaways that had fallen from his hair fighting the remote are pushed back more than once. Martin tries not to stare too hard, but it’s amazing to watch up close, all the movements he’d seen in the heat of their battle on that last planet magnified and explained. It only makes it more impressive. 

It must have been an hour, two even, and now Jon is spinning a pen gently through the air as he talks about temples and scriptures and training regimes. Martin watches his hand making the shapes he instinctively makes himself, but more practiced, more regimented. He does it without even concentrating. 

After a while he moves the pen across the room between them and Martin feels the overlap in the Force as he catches it and brings it into his own palm, untouched. 

That makes Jon’s sentence his last one; he trails off, just looking at the pen. The quiet is heavy but peaceful. it doesn’t  _ feel  _ like anything monumental, even though it is long enough to make Martin fiddle with the pen. It’s not unpleasant. He quite likes proving he’s not completely useless. Sharing something.

‘Why  _ did _ you keep it a secret?’ Jon asks, softer than he had the other night. ‘We haven't had to do that for hundreds of years.’ 

Martin frowns at that sudden bit of information. He hadn’t considered that the Force was ever something  _ other  _ people had hidden. Plus there’s the  _ we.  _

_ ‘ _ You - we? Um.’ 

In hesitating to answer he realises he did sort of ask to be asked in a way. Hedging the same question twice doesn’t seem fair. Maybe he wants to say it. It feels easier to, somehow, in the casual quiet of a cabin where the light is more warm and the room smells like a person rather than a kitchen and engine oil. 

‘My mum didn't like it,’ he admits, and it was actually a bit easier than he thought it would be. ‘So I tried not to do it so much at home. And then most of the time I'm not at home I’m at work, you know. So.’

‘Why? She didn’t have it?’

He scoffs. ‘No.’ 

Jon frowns like he’s puzzling something through. ‘So your father..?

‘Um,’ is all Martin can say instinctively before his mouth clamps shut. 

It feels incredibly strange and almost nauseating to hear someone else acknowledge the existence of a man who is all but purged from his life, his house, his memories. Who’s name he’s not even sure he knows how to pronounce because it was banned before he’d known it, before he’d thought of him as anything but ‘dad’. Acknowledging the fact this thing - this  _ good _ thing, it turns out, that Jon says he’s good at - is gifted from that nonexistent man feels like a heavy hand is twisting his guts around. 

This would all be far too much to say, he feels. Overwhelmingly too much to say, even if he thought he could manage to explain it. 

Instead he just stammers like a panicked idiot. ‘I don't really, um. I don’t-’

Jon stammers cutting him off too so he must have made it really awkward. ‘Fine, right, of course. Sorry, I just-’

‘No, it’s okay-’

‘You don’t have to explain anything,’ Jon says hurriedly, and he might just be trying to escape from the awfulness but it feels merciful. Kind, even. ‘I’m just, uh...’ 

‘Nosy,’ Martin suggests. Probably too harsh, but it makes them both smile just slightly. 

‘I was going to say curious, but that’s fair,’ Jon allows. The way a tiny bit of amusement shows in the quirk of his mouth, the flex in his expressive brows, the scrunch of his nose is so adorable that the awkwardness seems gone as soon as it came. 

There is a little pause then, both of them getting used to the comfort returning, before Martin asks, just to break it and because he wants to keep talking - ‘is it normally a family thing?’ 

‘Not always,’ Jon shrugs, ‘I don’t know if my parents could either.’ 

Martin files that little bit of information and maybe shared experience away. He doesn’t want to pry right now, but the feeling that someone might understand even a little bit (even though he’s sort of lied? maybe?) is nice. 

‘Are there lots more of you?’ He asks, and he hopes his not digging into parents comes across as kind as it had felt. 

Jon tilts his head this way and that, weighing it up like he’s counting. (It’s very cute.) ‘A fair few. There’s the council, then those who are actually knighted working around the Republic. Plus the academy - padawans, younglings.’ 

He doesn’t seem to notice Martin’s mouth dropping open. A fair few might be an understatement. 

Martin frowns as he considers the implication that there might even be hundreds of people with the Force that is supposed to tell Jon where they’re going, and yet they are still going round in circles. 

‘Are they going to help you then?’ 

‘Ah, not... not really,’ Jon explains vaguely, rubbing the back of his neck. ‘I’m supposed to do it on my own. It’s a sort of... test. Then I won’t be in training anymore.’

Ah, well that explains a lot about his work ethic, and his worrying, and his occasional lost looks. Martin nods along and wants to hug him. 

‘My friend Georgie is helping, though,’ he adds. ‘Uh, unofficially.’

‘Oh,’ Martin says, trying not to sound as acidic as he feels with the sudden realisation that Jon might already have someone home on Coruscant.  _ Stupid, you didn’t consider that? _ ‘That’s nice of her.’

He imagines she’s very pretty and immediately hates his brain for going straight there and making him bristle. 

‘Yes,’ Jon hedges answering with anything more revealing, ‘yes it is.’ Then, in the awkward pause, he seems to realise something and bursts out ‘oh, we’re not- uh. Anyway, she’s asking her girlfriend to help out.’ 

‘Oh! Cool!’ 

There is another pause that’s probably fine but Martin cringes viciously at. Was he really that obvious?  _ Cool? Really?  _

‘I can help too,’ he offers lamely, ‘I can try and help.’ 

He’d still sort of expected Jon to give him that expertly withering look he’d had on permanently in the early days. But instead he smiles again, somewhat ruefully. 

‘Well,’ he says, shrugging, ‘I suppose I am alive because of your help, so it couldn’t hurt.’

Over dinner later he frowns as he chews, clearly deep in thought, and Martin only hopes the quality of his cooking (read: reheating and steaming) is inspiring this new found bit of confidence in his apparent ability to help. 

  
  


On the next night of hovering in pointless orbit, after turning off the lights in the quarterdeck and saying their goodnights to Martin, Tim catches Jon's arm in the corridor. He leans against the wall and gestures for them to huddle like he’s got some deadly secret to divulge. 

‘What?’

Tim jerks a thumb at the door. ‘If he’s going to be staying with us,’ he whispers, ‘and you’re going to be doing all your training, don’t you think you should give him the bottom bunk?’

Jon pretends to think about it for about three seconds. ‘No.’ 

‘Why?’ 

‘Because.’

Tim sighs and dramatically rolls his eyes.

‘Look,’ Jon tells him sternly, ‘I’m not being an arsehole I do have... reasons.’

He likes his space. He needs to meditate. He’s nightmare-prone and Martin would be nice enough to ask him about it and he hates explaining and the idea of a soothing response to something he’s already confused about and likes to pretend doesn’t happen is a bit too much considering he’s not meant to get attached. 

He doesn’t say any of this. Tim tilts his head in question and it’s obvious some critique disguised as playful mocking is on the way. 

‘Is the reason because you’re worried he’ll kill you with his powerful Force abilities?’

‘No.’

‘Is it that you sleepwalk?’

‘No.’

‘Or snore really loudly-‘

‘Tim.’ 

Tim ignores him, lowering his voice again to a very conspiratorial whisper. ‘Orrrrr is it that he’s kind of exactly your type?’

Jon blanches, splutters on air. ‘He is not!’ He snaps, forgetting to whisper. ‘What are you- Georgie wasn’t- what-? What’s my type?’

Tim raises an eyebrow and Jon is immediately running analysis. Not that he cares. Just that it’s absurd and he needs to prove it...

They aren’t the same. Okay, they both have something not quite perfect in the shape of their smiles. There’s the same squish around the hips in regulation uniforms. They’re both taller than Jon, but that’s not saying much when it comes to his own species. Apart from that there’s barely a physical resemblance. Georgie’s eyes are darker, black-brown, not brandy-brown, and she mainly wears contacts over glasses. Her nose is longer compared to Martin’s, which is wide and flat and has an entirely different shape at the tip. Georgie had freckles all year round; martins skin is darker but has clearly not seen much sun. Georgie never blushed. She was awkward sometimes, but never shy. Sometimes she hid in the corner with Jon, but it was out of a groaning disdain for other people when she wasn’t in the mood, not performance anxiety. She was ruthless in her teasing and equally ruthless in her comfort. You  _ will _ feel better, she’d said, putting food on the table or yanking a book out from under him. She was a huge distraction from work. 

Well. There’s one small thing they have in common. Ah. Jon ignores the fact this is exactly the conclusion Georgie had come to and glares at Tim for an answer. 

Tim just gives him a smug smile that feels like a poke. 

Jon scowls and changes tactic. ‘Why don't  _ you _ share?’ 

It makes sense, after all they get on much better. Martin seems to like having easy conversations with him and Sasha in their corner of the quarterdeck. Plus -

‘You’re the one that’s so shamelessly flirting with him at every opportunity.’ 

Tim gasps dramatically. ‘Hey, not  _ every _ opportunity! I think I've flirted with him about three times.’

‘Five that I was there for.’

Tim swears with exasperation and something else that makes Jon suspicious. ‘Well, can you blame me?’ He relents, going back again to an even quieter whisper. ‘Look, I’ll happily back off. He clearly likes you.’ 

‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ is all Jon manages to say to that before he turns on his heel and storms off to bed. 

The room is comfortably, sacredly empty. 

  
  


Martin’s pot of morning brew has barely started simmering before Jon crashes into the kitchenette the next day. He’s clearly just out of bed - wide eyes full of sleep, hair pulled simply back leaving flyaways and his braid flapping a bit wildly. He barely registers that Martin is alone before dashing back out, leaving Martin blinking in his wake and deciding he needs a hot drink before dealing with that wild, domestic sight.

Jon returns five minutes later with Tim and Sasha in tow, both still in their pyjamas, and sits them all down around the table. 

He crosses his hands in his sleeves on the table top. ‘Georgie called back.’ 

Martin is still not sure how to feel about the existence of Georgie. He’s selfishly happier knowing she’s not Jon’s girlfriend, but it’s sort of hard to reckon with the idea that, though he doesn’t seem the type to have  _ loads  _ of friends, Jon has managed to have  _ some.  _

It’s not that Martin begrudges him friends. Stars, how messed up would that be? He’s happy Jon has friends. He probably needs them more than he lets on. 

What’s hard is the realisation that he has Jedi friends, which must mean all of them do, in that academy Jon had mentioned. Which leaves Martin on his own, the one who doesn’t understand it, didn’t know enough, wasn’t determined enough to get off his home planet and improve himself. The one held back by his parents, he loathes himself for thinking once or twice. 

It’s hard to be forced to reckon with his own loneliness. 

He makes himself shake it off though. He is  _ trying,  _ at least, to make friends. Plus, there must have been others like him, who can do this but never made it to the Core system. Which, of course, makes Martin far luckier than all of them and far luckier than he deserves. To have someone like Jon to tell him that he’s special.

Well, Jon never said ‘special’. He said ‘good at this’, which he may have since rescinded over the past week. 

Their conversations - that have slowly become a bit more like spending time, and sometimes a bit more like a lecture - go up and down in terms of success. Success in terms of how much Martin can do with the Force when he’s not flooded with adrenaline, and in terms of how well their conversation seems to flow, how many times Jon smiles. It feels like in both directions they seem to be going backwards and forwards, and Martin hasn’t figured out yet if it’s two steps forward and one step back, or just rocking on the spot. 

The meditating is  _ hard.  _ Jon says he just needs to reach out and he should feel... everything. Honestly that all sounds like spiritual bull to Martin; he’s been able to lift pebbles and turn screws this whole time without feeling anything mystical. But he tries, because clearly he is not the one that knows about this stuff, and because it’s mostly how he gets to talk to Jon. Even if that’s with his eyes closed sat on the floor and trying to think about  _ nothing  _ until his arse aches and he’s bored out of his skull. 

Apparently, this is what training would be like with the Order. Or harder, if Jon isn’t exaggerating how intense the regimes are. He wonders what it would be like to train in a hypothetical, removed way, taking it for granted of course that he can’t. The imaginations float lofty above his head.

Would he wear the same beige robes criss crossing his chest, the same long cloak with a dramatic hood over his face? Would he tuck his arms into the sleeves like Jon does? He indulges in imagining himself with a single long thin braid tickling his shoulder and laughs to himself. 

It’s just a fantasy, really. He still hasn’t decided on whether he’s going to stay after they’ve found whatever it is Jon’s looking for. Whether he’s going to actually go and... train. Leaving home has been an ordeal enough already, he thinks sometimes. Talking to people, experiencing strange things. It’s exhausting. He knows he can’t really. He can’t, there’s still his mum to look after. 

But he can’t quite bring himself to write it off either. So he keeps letting Jon go off with his mystical sorcery words and clicking his tongue in annoyance that occasionally sounds like amusement when Martin asks stupid questions. Sometimes things work better than other times. They’ve managed to pass multiple books back and forth between them like juggling. Even if Jon squints like there’s something wrong, something missing, it’s still quite fun.

And the times when he’d managed to get a  _ ‘yes’ _ to the question  _ ‘I’m gonna get lunch, do you want to come?’ _ are very much worth all of it. They make him think about leaving everything and yearn for something else across the gap of reality. 

He thinks about lunch all day as he wanders round the ship finding bits and pieces to tinker with, finishing the repairs he was originally commissioned for. 

But now, it seems, whatever limbo period this was is over, because Georgie has swooped in to save the day. And now they have a new lead. Fantastic. 

Martin sighs. He shouldn’t be a dick about it. Can’t really be too disappointed anyway; it wasn’t like  _ he  _ was going to be of any help in tracking a fearsome bounty hunter, or like he had any right to hope the quest would take  _ longer.  _ Not when Jon had been so clearly antsing to get a move on. He’d been on a time crunch, that much was obvious. Maybe part of the test he’d mentioned. Though, if Tim and Sasha are to be believed, it’s largely self inflicted. 

He looks much happier this morning. More relaxed. That’s not something Martin can feel disappointment about. Quite the contrary, he’s only a little disappointed in how stupidly gooey he feels watching Jon’s wide victorious smile. 

He’s smiling himself as he slinks back to his corner of the quarterdeck, after Tim and Sasha have been chased into the cockpit by Jon’s eagerness to get going. Okay, the warm feeling should probably make him cringe. It does. But it’s still warm. 

He runs a hand over the deep brown cloak he’s almost finished hemming. If they’re going to be landing sometime today he’s going to need to find a time to give them back. Even though it’s not a surprise, imagining it makes his stomach flutter. 

He sighs again at himself, but, in the safety of the empty room, pulls out his needle and starts to gently waft his hand across the folded edge. 

  
  


Georgie’s new girlfriend - who runs some sort of ghost hunting holoshow, ridiculous - has managed to come through after all. Georgie had said she’d found out from ‘hacking’ the Jedi archives, which Jon doesn’t really understand but had been affronted by on principal. (‘They’re old archives, Georgie, they’re sacred-;, ‘oh, Jon, not everything with the word  _ Jedi _ in front of it is a holy artefact, chill out.’) 

Her contact tracing has given them the approximate coordinates of a notorious bounty hunter named Basira Hussain, who, if Melanie is to be believed, is famed for digging up ‘really weird shit’. Honestly, their file had looked pretty intimidating, but right now Jon is rather in need of someone who is good at finding weird shit.

It’s something, and after a week of tracking, he hopes more than anything that she’ll have something for him. Some lead in the right direction. The past few days they’ve just been orbiting a little moon, waiting for any coordinates to take them anywhere inhabited. Wasting time. And he’s been doing more practice with Martin than he has with himself. 

It’s not his responsibility, he’d told himself when he’d first seen that M-count. He’s not taking on a padawan. He’s hardly qualified to be teaching. But he corrects as an instinct; he’s always been pedantic. Plus, he can’t exactly bring Martin to Coruscant and promise the council a strong Jedi when the man has not even the most basic understanding of the Force in theoretical terms. 

His practical application is patchy too. Evidently he is incredibly powerful for someone without training, but he seems to have little control over it. The times it has come out strongly so far seem to be emotional responses, which does worry Jon somewhat. He can’t understand it, first of all. It ought to make him weaker - worrying about the others always throws Jon off. It’s a Sith trait, he hates to say, the guidance of passion. In the quiet of the ship in the afternoon, Martin sends objects across the room happily, but he isn’t really  _ feeling  _ the Force - just doing what he’s always done. Plus, he’s still a bit shaky about having people watching. 

He still seems able to lie to Tim and Sasha, though perhaps the fact they’ve become closer is diminishing the ability somewhat. Either that or they’ve both become smarter suddenly and know not to take everything he says at face value. 

He keeps taking charge of the breakfast, until one morning Tim beats him to it and insists he let someone else take a turn. Martin says it's easy for him to, since he sleeps in the quarterdeck and Tim hums pointedly. Jon ignores him - he’ll need all his concentration to catch a bounty hunter, and he doesn’t want to give any of that up on what Tim thinks or how the window seat is probably bad for Martin's back. 

Concentration is what he tries to focus on now, standing in the corridor where the large metal ramp is going to descend after they hand, holding on to a piece of rope he’s looped around a ceiling pipe. 

It’s just him, so he takes a second to close his eyes, reach out and feel all the metals within it, before his serenity is disturbed. 

He knows it’s Martin, but it bothers him a bit that he knew that from the tread of his walk and the sound he makes clearing his throat, and not from the Force. 

He opens his eyes. 

‘Alright?’

‘Yes, thank you. Good, actually.’

He turns around to be polite, and then notices the bundle of brown folded up and awkwardly being held out to him. 

’Sorry if it’s a bit messy,’ Martin says as he slowly gives the robes back. 

Jon examines the hem without saying anything - each imperfect, slightly uneven stitch. It isn’t messy at all, just not quite perfect. He doesn’t mind it. It draws attention, when he looks close, to the way each one was created with the purposeful draw of a caring needle. 

He has never mended his own things before. They were laundered in the academy, and he usually just learned to live with little holes or wrapped loose things tighter. It seems so simple, that one  _ could  _ fix things, now he sees it, and he feels slightly stupid for how long he’s spent hiking his robes up with a belt. But he didn’t, and so the service tightens his throat a bit, in a way that almost makes him cringe. He should be better with favours. 

‘Thank you,’ he says a bit tightly as he slips them on. 

Martin’s smile started small but is growing crooked as it gets wider. He looks relieved. He looks about to say something, but is interrupted by the rattling jolt to the knees that comes with their landing. 

‘Here we are,’ Tim calls as he and Sasha arrive alongside them by the main door. 

Sasha reaches over to push a large button and the ramp starts to descend. The moment is very much over as they all turn to look down at the planet. 

All there is is sand. Beige dunes as far as they can see, grains all whipped up in the air, making it practically the same colour. 

‘Welcome to Tatooine, boys.’ 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> is it star wars if they dont go to tatooine.... no 
> 
> ty all for sticking w me <3333 hope u enjoyed pls know ur comments sustain me like a 3 course meal x


	8. Tatooine I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi its been a while!! u may have seen i was busy w martim week. ty for sticking around and i hope u keep sticking when tma is ov- i cant even say it :(( 
> 
> space gays r back and w canon typical repression and sand hating incoming

Tatooine is known for being sandy. All Jon has heard about it is it’s a sandy, dusty, backend, boring, middle of nowhere, sandy wasteland. But it still shocks him when he steps off the ramp onto the planet and is immediately hit with a windy gust of sand to the face. 

He coughs, then scowls as he hears a now familiar giggle-snort next to him. 

‘Sorry,’ Martin laughs, ‘just- you look like you’re about to lightsaber chop the sand.’

‘I might well,’ Jon huffs. 

There is sand in his hair. He tugs his hood up in an attempt to protect it, but the wind forcefully pushes it back down. His dramatic sigh at this makes Martin hum and pull something from his pocket. 

‘D’you want this?’ He asks, holding out the square of pale blue fabric that had been protecting his own hair from fog and fumes on the first day. 

‘No,’ Jon says quickly, shaking his head for some kind of embarrassed emphasis. ‘Thank you,’ he adds. 

Martin shrugs and ties it over his own hair. There is still sand getting in the back, Jon notices. He doesn’t tell Martin this, or brush it off himself. 

His robes whip around his ankles with the desert wind, and he begrudgingly admits he’s very glad they aren’t dragging in the sand as they set off in the direction of Mos Shuuta. 

The town centre is yet more sand and a lot of dusty rocky ground and not much else. All the walls are clay in the same beige colour. There is very little exciting to see, but it should be hard to hide here, surely? Even for a professional bounty hunter. The four of them swanning into town in a line don’t half stand out. Himself always blatant though he’s keeping his saber hidden; Tim in his bright colours, two blasters and a string of explosives hanging off his hips (‘taking no chances this time, what with our record.’); Sasha standing taller than all of them with her glowing orange skin and fashion Jon doubts anyone in this desert will have seen before; and Martin, wiggling out of his hot sleeves to tie them around his waist and staring around as always. 

He doesn’t look awestruck this time, which is fair enough. There’s nothing really awe-inspiring here. What he does look extremely put out and overheated as he repeatedly pushes his glasses back up his nose. In his defence, it is high noon and the surface is boiling, bright as a star with the two suns blaring above them. But the locals will be used to it; any sweat is going to give them away. 

They make it about halfway down what Jon is forced to assume is a high street, deserted as it is, before he stops them. 

‘We should split up.’

‘No,’ Tim says, at the same time as Martin sticks his head round from the end of the line to exclaim ‘what?!’

‘Look, clearly we don’t exactly blend in here. We’ll draw too much attention as a group, more if I’m with you, and I’d rather not face another run to the ship.’

Sasha leans back, crossing her arms and surveying him. He gets the feeling she’s trying to figure out what that not-untrue reasoning is really saying, and tries to stand firm, putting his most authoritative face on. 

Tim clearly feels more comfortable outright criticising his approach, as is to be expected. They’ve got the history of it. ‘So let me guess,’ he drawls with an accusatory slowness, ‘you’ll go alone for safety?’ 

Well, Jon hadn’t really wanted to admit that splitting up would not only help him do his job better, or do his job the way he’s meant to at least, but also stop him worrying he would draw unpleasant attention to the others. He’s not historically a very good liar though, and he knows Tim well enough to realise any attempt he makes to deny this is futile. 

‘Precisely,’ he acknowledges. Then, because he doesn’t want them to think he’s going soft, he adds - ‘that and I’ll be more effective.’

Tim huffs and rolls his eyes. ‘That sounds like a load of crap, Jon.’

Sasha nods. Behind them both, Martin clearly has a similar idea, leaning his weight skeptically on one hip. 

Jon sighs like he’s not at all bothered by them seeing through his reasoning. ‘Basira will get spooked if there’s a crowd of us, if we don’t get in trouble in town first, and I’m more likely to find them.’ 

Tim throws his hands up, leaving Sasha to ask the question. ‘So we are the B-team?’ 

‘Exactly.’

‘Right.’ 

That’s as much of a blessing as Jon’s endeavour is going to get, given the looks on the other’s faces. Whatever. He doesn’t need help. Or rather, he does, but he ought to be able to  _ prove  _ he doesn’t. And he  _ would  _ really rather avoid any of them coming across the bounty hunter if he can help it. They’ve all proven they  _ can  _ handle themselves, but they shouldn’t have to. If anyone has to face the danger of their mission it should be a Jedi, not a bystander. They only signed up to fly the ship.

He nods briefly and blesses them shortly. ‘May the force be with you.’ 

It’s to all of them, but he finds, and really he rationalises it’s quite natural, that he’s mostly saying it to Martin. 

The man’s face falls from a frowning sort of expression that could have been irritation or concern into something softer and probably confused. 

‘Oh, uh,’ he says, ‘you too?’

He tries a smile after that and Jon returns a firm nod before turning on his heel. 

  
  


Tim and Sasha have continued the route they were on, gradually making their way to the centre of town, but Martin follows them with his head half turned over his shoulder, watching Jon’s already slight frame get smaller and smaller as he leaves them in a swirl of cloak. 

Sasha bumps his shoulder and he realises he probably walked into her. 

‘Sorry,’ he says, feeling hotter by the minute. Fucking  _ two  _ suns, really?

She puts on a kind face. ‘Don't worry about him. Tim says he’s always like that.’ 

Martin raises an eyebrow and she raises hers back at him, poking Tim for backup. 

‘Right?’

‘Oh yeah,’ Tim nods emphatically. He rolls his eyes and kicks a rock into a dust cloud. ‘The ‘I work better on my own’ bollocks? Classic Jon. It's nothing personal.’ 

He seems like he’s taking it personally though, which Martin can definitely relate to. He’s trying very hard himself not to feel like this is some slight. Didn’t he prove he can handle himself with a blaster? With the Force, ish? He could have stayed on the ship to guard it, but no. He came with them off the ship because he wants to help. It feels shitty to be shunted off to third wheel when he thought him and Jon were slowly making friends.

‘Really?’ he asks. 

Tim nods again, this time sagely. He swaps places with Sasha so they can continue their conversation. ‘Really. He’s probably just worried about us and can’t admit it.’ Off Martin’s expression he chuckles, not entirely mirthlessly. ‘Yeah, I know. It’s a Jedi thing.’

Martin frowns. ‘What is?’

‘Pretending not to have feelings,’ Tim clarifies with another eyeroll, but this one seems fond. He softens slightly as he goes on explaining his ridiculous friend. ‘He’s actually quite emotional, but we’re not, you know. Meant to know that.’

_ Quite emotional.  _ ‘Hmm,’ Martin says, as neutral as he can. He doesn’t plan on letting on too much that he’d thought the exact same thing. Soft under all that. Is that normal for jedi too, or is that just Jon? 

It would explain a lot if it’s just him, like Tim's saying. If the Jedi aren’t big into feelings and Jon wants to be one. Then again, maybe Martin’s too nice, but he’s not sure Jon would do as well on that part of the test as the others. He’s sharp, but after all, he’s picked up and befriended a stowaway despite all his protests. He’s too good a teacher to have no feelings. And besides, his face as he slipped his robes back on hadn’t been nothing. Martin’s sure the gentle surprise in Jon’s  _ thank you  _ hadn’t been just his own projected fantasies.

Come to think of it, if Jedi not meant to be soft that doesn’t exactly bode well for him either.

His frown must be stuck on because Tim says - ‘Trust me, we’ve been friends for a while.’

‘Really?’ Martin asks for the sake of hearing more about it. Not that he disbelieves it but he wants to hear the stories.

‘Well,’ Tim shrugs, ‘a while on and off.’ 

He doesn’t elaborate, so Martin is left to imagine school days full of games, maybe sports, maybe playfights in the dust. No - no dust on Coroscant apparently. The two of them talking in nice high rise apartments, watching speeders zip by and lights glitter in the window as they gossip over homework. Maybe sleeping over. The kind of things he never did with other children, or other boys.

He trudges on silently for a bit, wondering if it was work - this Jedi stuff - that was the  _ off  _ part. Wondering when they got  _ on  _ again. If they ever -

‘He does like you,’ Tim tells him suddenly, sounding amused. 

‘Huh?’ Martin blanches, pushes sweat off his palms. Scoffs to cover it. ‘As if.’

‘Oh, come on,’ Sasha interjects from the end of the line. 

Tim makes a similar noise. ‘Lunches, showing you all his wizard shit?’

‘It’s not-’ Martin starts, before realising his weak defence sounds very much like an echo of Jon’s pedantry and shutting up quickly. ‘Whatever. You two are mad if you think- we’re just... practicing.’

Tim shrugs and Sasha holds her hands up. They leave it alone but the look they share irritates Martin and also gets his brain firing into hyperdrive trying to follow what on earth they’ve concocted between them. It’s sad, really, he decides as they keep walking in silence now. That they think he’s got further than he has. 

  
  


Jon wastes no time in setting off once he’s loose from the others. He quickly finds his first object - a map of the local area, very faded where it’s been embossed on the side of a marshal's office. Where would a bounty hunter hide out? Town is possible, of course. Some dingy saloon. Too obvious, he thinks, no doubt there’s where the others will try first. 

Instead he directs his attention round the edge of the town. If you didn’t want to be found, if you wanted your coordinates as vague as possible. Another gust of sandy wind blows his hood back and he scoffs. If you wanted to stay protected in all this weather, then where would you hide? 

His eyes are drawn to a rocky outcrop of red hills, rising just above the back of the town. Their shadows indicate caves. 

Jon heads in their direction, feeling very pleased with himself despite the sand’s attempts to slow him down. 

With no leads and very little else to go on, Tim’s first suggestion is the local watering hole. Sasha looks a bit skeptical, but Martin silently agrees with him, knowing from experience that shady places like the one they’re peering into now are exactly where the kind of deals for bounty their hunter might be searching for go down. 

That doesn’t make him any happier about the crowd. 

Clearly the bar is popular, not so seedy as to scare off ordinary patrons. It’s not rammed, not if he’s being objective, probably not by normal standards, but to him?  _ Stars, it must be half the town in here.  _ The three of them hover awkwardly around the bar, trying to blend in when they’re being pressed against on all sides. Martin looks up, ignoring the bodies that obscure some of vision, and tries to focus on the room itself, the fixtures, the architecture. It’s nice, actually. Not so run down as the rest of town looks from the outside. It’s gaudy, in fact, the closer he looks. There’s gold painted onto the walls, thought and theme in the geometric decoration, wealth on display in the uniforms of the staff, the dancers and the spice in the air. A band of musicians play on a raised stage and, in a clear sign this place belongs to money, no one watches. 

He mentions this to Tim as Sasha orders for them. Tim nods. 

‘Old money,’ he says, pointing out the cracks in the gold, the dust on the fancy sconces.

‘Does old money hire bounty hunters?’

Sasha turns back with the drinks and grimaces. ‘We should ask them.’

She gestures across the crowd to a raised platform, over the dancers in the center of the room. A large table sits there, half obscured by tropical leaves and more fanning dancers, and around it four large Hutts survey what must be their domain. They are huge and bulbus, old, surely, the corners of their mouths cracking. Martin has never seen Hutts this close - only heard them passing through the port sometimes. They look drier than he imagined, not slimy. Somehow this repulses him more. One of them laughs and his booming sound carries down to them. 

Tim sighs but nods acceptance. He looks almost apprehensive and Martin notices he steps close to Sasha as they shoulder through the patronage and up to the big table. She zips up her outer layer despite the heat. 

‘Room for a couple more, gents?’

It’s a very bold opener, but the Hutts welcome them warmly, very warmly, in a way that sounds amused to have been granted new playthings and betrays they’ve been drinking since the morning. Tim pulls out Sasha’s chair and slots her between him and Martin in a way that seems established and serious - not his usual flirting style. It sets Martin a little on edge considering why. He doesn’t like the looks any of them get, but he’s not so naive as to notice they look at Sasha with the most repulsive of all - a smarmy, condescending desire. 

The conversation is loud and bombastic, ringing even louder in this private part of the bar. Martin’s not quite fast enough with the Huttese he’s picked up eavesdropping at the port to be really involved - he’s not sure he even  _ could _ lie to them if he tried. Tim and Sasha seem to at least be able to understand it, and they turn the conversation to hunters as fast as they feasibly can without arousing suspicion. 

Ughok the Hutt frowns. ‘You looking to hire or work?’

‘Hire,’ Tim grins, ‘why do you think I’d be any good?’

The table erupts in loud hearty laughs. 

Martin attempts to help; he plays his part in nodding and laughing and pretending to drink whatever it is they’ve passed him. He keeps looking around the room - for clues, for Basira, for a way out of this conversation. What he spies, hidden in the musty corner, is a glass cylinder that he recognises despite the dust that obscures its flashing lights. The dim aquamarine colour, glowing foggy through the layer of grime suddenly reminds him of home, thousands of miles away. 

‘Sasha?’ he whispers under the cover of Tim’s pretty convincing fake laugh, ‘do you think I could use the phone?’

She pats his arm, which is sweet of her but only serves to make him feel very small. It’s a sympathetic motion and he should be grateful; she probably thinks he’s upset, homesick. Actually the idea of calling makes him feel nauseous with dread and guilt. The way that fogs his head a bit feels natural after living in it until so very recently. But that’s not what she’s comforting him for, and it rings a bit hollow. 

‘Hey, does that phone work?’ she asks the group at large next time there’s a lull, and Martin could honestly sink through the sand to the planet’s core. 

‘Depends who you’re calling, darling,’ Dribbo the Hutts grins. 

Sasha pulls a face and Tim leans a pointed arm around her shoulder in attempted rescue. ‘Ew, none of your business.’

‘There’s no need for that  _ venom _ , now, sweet.’

‘I’m just asking for-’

‘My mother,’ Martin steps in, feeling childish as the Hutts put down their drinks to look at him. ‘I’m trying to call my mother. I’ll just go and look,’ he says quickly, standing. ‘I’m sure I can make it work.’ 

He heads over and uses his sleeve to pull the dusty door open. Everything looks in working order, under the cover of age, but - ah. His heart sinks as he recognises the shape of the slots. Of course, nothing’s ever free. 

He takes a moment to process that disappointment inside the tube before he steps out, hoping to pass it off as an inspection or something. Honestly he’d have stayed longer to avoid the Hutts if it wasn’t such a small space. As soon as he backs out through the door though, he jumps so high he nearly hits his head. 

Another Hutt, slightly smaller in height but still wide enough to block his view of the table, is standing in front of the door. Martin immediately feels anxiety as he steps backwards into the booth again, but the Hutt smiles enough to calm him and he gasps out ‘blazes, you made me jump!’

‘Sorry,’ the Hutt grins. He almost looks shy and Martin feels bad for judging him. 

‘It’s fine, I’m fine. I’m uh- just heading-’

He trails off as a large hand that really is dry pushes something into his own palm. Looking down, he recognises the rectangular shape of Republic credits, but the weight is lighter. 

‘Stick that in, it won’t even charge you.’

‘Thanks...’

‘Lew. And listen, sorry about them. I’m not like my dad, I swear.’

Sand is incredibly tiring to walk on. This is something that has failed to be mentioned to Jon in all the stories of Tatooine. It is hot and the sand seems determined to sap and eventually swallow him. The tiredness that’s starting to drag down his calves is not at all reassuring. 

He can barely see the town now down the hills of dunes. It blends so seamlessly into the beige of the ground and windy sky. Anyone wearing the same colour could jump out of nowhere. If he took his cloak off here he’d virtually be invisible too - which might help at least give him the same advantage. But then no one would ever find him if he got lost in all this  _ sand.  _

He’s dimly aware that his nervousness is not only for his own trek but imaginations of what could be happening back in town that are slowly starting to slip into a spiral. He keeps walking, trying to focus on each grain of sand against his wrapped boots. How it feels, how it came to be, not how it drags at him.  _ I am one with the Force and the Force is with me.  _ He knows Tim and Sasha can handle themselves. And he’s seen Martin manage more than fine with a blaster. Impressively more than fine. He just hopes they’ve thought to give him one. He should have said.  _ I am one with the Force and the Force is with me.  _ He hopes very much it’s with them too. All of them. 

He really can’t start worrying about Martin any more than the rest of them. There’s no reason to. He  _ can  _ do  _ some  _ things, after all. Jon just wishes he could reach out and feel that he’s okay. He likes to keep an eye on things, after all. It would be reassuring to know he’s alright. That would infer the rest of them are alright too, then, of course. 

He concentrates again, reaches out back into the town and tries to feel the energy there. But all he gets are his own feelings - which are far too many and all varying degrees of unsettled, concerned, protective. Nothing. Not even anything to be concerned about.  _ Ugh.  _ Something tells him the others tried the bar, but that’s intuition, nothing else. Blazes, things were easier with Georgie in that regard -  _ see you later,  _ just like that, nothing to worry about because he’d  _ feel  _ it if there was anything to worry about  _ properly _ . Once a fight had broken out and he’d barely been out the door chopping bullets back before she’d dropped onto the floor next to him with her own saber raised. 

He can’t rely on himself to do that for- 

_ Ugh, stop.  _ He grimaces and pushes on. Not distracted. Aiming for a cave that might hide a bounty hunter.  _ I am one with the Force and the Force is with me.  _

At least that’s something he has by his side. 

He is still far from the entrance to his first cave when he feels the sand shifting behind him. Sifting over his feet, falling from somewhere, moving because - 

He manages to just turn around in time that a boot hits him squarely in the chest and sends him sprawling backwards into the hot sand. 

  
  


It’s somehow even quieter once Martin’s squeezed back into the booth, the murky glass muffling both the light and sound from the rest of the tavern. All Martin can really hear in here is his own breathing, the clumsy sounds his own fingers are making as he wiggles his fake credits into the slot and jabs through the list of numbers. His hometown port is so very far down on the list. 

It whirs and rings and the sounds are janky, old. Somehow this all exaggerates the distance and compounds his guilt for traversing it. He clings to the hope in each buzz as the line attempts to connect; if he can just talk, just know his mum’s okay and he’s not so awful as all that. 

The call is eventually picked up by a colleague, he presumes. He only vaguely recognises the voice. 

They’re clearly surprised to hear he’s not there, even more so to hear he wants someone to  _ go into his house.  _ They barely sound it though; it’s more like they’re talking tactfully to an alien than astonished or relieved to hear the voice of a missing friend.

‘Please,’ Martin tries to make them listen as he explains, ‘I just need someone to look in on her. There’s food in the house, should be. I need someone to just check she’s alright.’

The voice makes some vague assurances that they’ll see what they can do. They sound so distant. He can hear the half-hearted lie in their voice, the shifting, the way they are itching to get away from him and back to silence. 

He remembers the feeling, and wonders if he always used to sound like that too. If that’s how he still sounds to the others. 

The call is disconnected with a buzz and he barely registers the difference from the quiet down the line.

If anything he feels worse, now, actually. To think that that was him, might have been his fate. To recognise that it still is him, a bit. And his mum... there’s still no guarantee anyone will do anything for her, that anyone cares without the weight of responsibility to make them. 

With the awful terror that is freedom comes a new healthy dose of guilt. He only hopes the others won't ask too much about the call; what reaction could there be to this other than to judge him? Knowing he’s abandoned someone he’s sure  _ must _ miss him. Knowing that nothing about that call makes him want to go back to her. 

He walks out of the booth in a quiet daze, and is wandering aimlessly in the vague direction of the bar before he’s scooped up by Tim and Sasha. Apparently the Hutt’s have suggested somewhere and they’re off to try... something else. Martin nods without really paying attention, suddenly too tired to even feel relieved that Sasha seems unaffected by everything, and if they notice they don’t say anything. 

Their soft bickering continues as it always does over the whipping sandy wind down what are presumably a few side streets. Martin could not have navigated the three turns back if he tried. It’s taking all his energy to stay grounded and not cry. The blaring heat and sand that makes his feet drag is less than helpful in this end. It’s so hot he’s sure he nearly can’t breathe. His breathing is louder than even the other’s conversation and they must know surely they know-

They make it into another saloon and he extracts himself immediately to find a bathroom. In the dark, clay room with its cave-like low ceiling, it is cool enough to breathe. The smallness of the space doesn’t help - he gets a bit claustrophobic. But what it is is private and quiet and invisible, which are the most important things right now. One phone call, really? One call to no one in particular and he’s flapping his hands under his eyes in the bathroom of some grotty bar. Martin very determinedly does not let himself call that pathetic; it would be the opposite of helpful right now. He stays there, blinking at the ceiling and pressing his fingers gently under his wet eyelashes until he’s calm enough to be shamefaced about the whole thing. 

Then he goes back upstairs to find the others. 

Sand is _impossible_ to walk in. It is impossible to shuffle backwards in, or to stand and fight in. It is a suction cup, a slippery grainy magnet that clings to every layer and limb as Jon attempts to scramble away from the person looming over him. 

Tall, broad, in armour slung over with beige scraps. A helmet decked in the same tattered canvas, a crude veil and thick goggles hides their face, but he’s sure it would be leering at him. 

It doesn’t help that the sand is  _ hot,  _ scorching his hands as he tries to get purchase, making him pant aggressively in a way that doesn’t help him feel any less like prey. The figure stalks slowly after him, making no attempt to finish him off, just stepping into each of his footprints. Hunting. Toying. 

He just manages to jump up and out of their shadows as they draw a huge, heavy weapon from their back. It spins, white and black plastic blurring together with a hungry strip of hot red, and between two thick prongs ignites a snarling, spluttering laser. Jon lands on the sand and quickly hops back even further, trying to stay light on his feet, before drawing his own weapon. It is quiet compared to the loud crackling of the one he faces. Quiet compared to his own ragged breath. He tries to calm it, focussing on the hum of static between them as the hunter seems to prowl around him. 

He steps sideways, crossing his feet just like in training, trying to mirror his adversary. That’s all this is. A duel.  _ You know how to duel. _

Then the hunter lunges with a yell and the blades crunch together in sparks. 

  
  


This bar feels even more crowded than the previous one, more than he’d noticed coming in, but his brain is probably still exaggerating out of fear. It’s actually rather a small space - dingy and curved, the ceiling becoming the wall at such an angle that the habitable space is even smaller. There are several alcoves to scan as well as the clumped group in the centre. In looking around for Tim and Sasha, Martin’s eyes catch the glint from something on the other side of the room. 

He narrows his still damp eyes to the opposite corner, itself shrouded in desert-cool darkness, and tries to make out the shape of the shadow sitting there through the crowd. 

Something is telling him it’s significant, so he steps into the crowd and squeezes through to the bar to get a closer look. The crowd was smaller than he’d thought, but it’s still pretty tight, and he’s still getting used to the feeling of being shorter than quite a lot of the patrons. Apparently he was never tall, everyone from Moorch-ei was just  _ really  _ short. Some of the species here are even taller than Sasha - stooped to fit under the ceiling. It is a fight to wedge himself, invisible, apparently, through them to the bar. 

Once there he represses a shudder as he slots himself next to a stranger, but keeps darting glances at the corner. 

Another stranger is sitting there, he can see now, alone at a small table clearly meant to be kept out of sight. A wound scarf covers their head, neck, and shoulders that Martin can see. A large rifle and a collection of heavy interwoven belts hung with weapons, pouches and bags are all slung over the seat behind them. He has a sneaking suspicion that this just might be a bounty hunter. Possibly, hopefully, the one they need. 

He’s about to try and subtly lean closer when the bartender approaches him and grunts something about a drink, which promptly makes him forget how to speak.

‘Um.’

‘Bantha blasters for us,’ Tim chimes happily as he claps a merciful hand on Martin's shoulder and slides into the next seat. ‘And a comet duster for the lady.’

‘Flirt,’ Sasha accuses him cheerily. She leans back with her elbows on the bar, surveying the scene. 

Martin catches a look between them he doesn’t really have time to dissect as anything more than cute enough to give him a wistful zap of jealousy. He ignores this, knowing he should just be happy they’re not mentioning his running off, and quietly points out his find. 

‘I think that might be her, in the far corner.’ 

Tim hums. ‘Yeah, clocked. Pretty suspicious place to sit to be honest. You wanna blend in with the crowd. Thanks,’ he adds to the bartender who grumpily slams three cocktails down on the bar. ‘Didn’t Jon say they had a load of scars?’

‘Can’t see,’ Sasha murmurs around her straw. Then she pulls a sharp intake of breath. ‘Something round her neck, I’m pretty sure it’s kyber.’

Martin darts a look. The hunter is indeed wearing a short crystal round her neck on a string armoured with metal beads that don’t glint half as much. Tim slowly turns his head a little to the side to look too. 

‘Oh yeah, could well be.’ He catches Martin's frown - ‘no one gets kyber without hunting if they’re not Jedi.’

‘So,’ Sasha says, turning round to huddle with them. ‘Do we approach her, do we call Jon?’

Tim can't hold in his snort. ‘Sorry, just. He really made us the B-team and we kind of smashed the quest without him. And we got drinks in along the way.’

‘Hello,’ says a cool, hard voice behind them. 

They all jump. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ok not sure how hot tatooine is in canon but it looks hot so. 
> 
> apparently not all the hutt species are hutts but i think its funny also i named them with this hutt name generator... which u should click thru if u want comedy value and then i named one lew after lew sadclowncentral formally twinlinches whom i love and who loves hutts https://www.fantasynamegenerators.com/sw-hutt-names.php
> 
> also yes she/they basira :)) (shes not a cop in this) 
> 
> pls note... the tim sasha tag... theyre cute they got to me...
> 
> let me know your thoughts pwease ur comments r getting me thru this hard cropless winter <3


	9. Tatooine II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ooo fight scene time. general heads up theres some violence more details (spoilers) in the end notes <3

It turns out Basira Hussain is intimidating, for sure, but not actively frightening. She takes up a lot of space in the booth, even if she doesn’t spread herself and her weapons to achieve the effect. By comparison Martin feels sandwiched in with the others. Small even though he takes up the most of the bench. He sips his drink awkwardly. They all do a bit. 

‘So this Jedi,’ Basira is asking now, after they’ve stumbled through explaining. Or rather, Tim has, as their nominated charmer, while Sasha supplies some specifics that make them sound a little more competent. ‘He’s after my help, why?’

Tim gives some vague non-answer about the artefact. Martin thinks he does a fairly good job considering none of them, not even Jon it turns out, really know what it is they're looking for. Still, Basira looks skeptical. And given that her skeptical is accompanied by as much fire power as it is, Martin thinks he should maybe try something. 

‘He reckoned a professional hunter would have the best idea where to find something that valuable,’ he says smoothly, trying to be discreet about his steadying breaths. ‘Plus, we have credits.’

He’s not really sure how much that’s a lie, or how much the Force can help him here. Basira turns their dark, inquisitive eyes on him and he tries not to give anything away to their stare. There is a long pause. Tim’s knee is bouncing next to him under the table. 

Then Basira nods slowly. ‘You said he’s gone off looking on his own?’

‘Yeah..?’ Martin fails at not sounding nervous there, he knows, but there’s something ominous in her tone that he really doesn’t like. 

She nods again, then abruptly stands and begins gathering her things. ‘Meet me outside.’

Then she’s gone. 

‘What the fuck?’ Tim asks her empty seat as they’re left to the dregs of their drinks. 

Martin remembers Jon’s excuses, the danger this hunter poses to them, and the little animal instinct in his chest is very much saying stay hidden, stay safe. But he wanted to help didn’t he? He’d quite like them all to think he’s competent. And more than anything, that tiny expression that had flitted across her face when she asked if Jon was alone out there in the sand dunes terrifies him enough to stand. 

There are three of them and one of her, after all, and they’ve made it through the rest of the scrapes. Tim and Sasha flank him to the door. 

Outside in the dusty backyard, Martin is relieved to see Tim retrieve a comms device from one of Sasha's many pockets and flip it open. 

He clicks the button down. ‘Oi oi. Tatooine B-team to Captain Sims, do you copy? Over.’

The device beeps as he releases his finger and they all wait for a response. There is nothing but silence from the machine. Tim clearly catches Martin's frown and holds up a finger optimistically as if to say  _ just a second.  _

The seconds drag on, and that same ominous feeling is creeping down Martin's spine like a drop of cold water. He looks around them for a threat, but there is none. No, he realises as the adrenaline starts to seep into him regardless of the quiet, it has to be for Jon. He stares at the tiny speaker and wills it to snap at him. 

Tim clicks the button again. ‘Pick up you bastard.’ 

They wait again. Nothing. Tim waves an awkward hand at Basira, waiting behind them with an eyebrow raised.

‘Son of a bantha,’ he rolls his eyes. Then he seems to realise his tone is anything but funny to Martin and pats his shoulder. ‘Don’t worry, he’s always doing this. Just got his head in his work and won’t want us ruining it.’

Martin wants to believe him, he really does, and probably Tim knows Jon better than he does. But he can’t quell the trickling worry that’s giving him goosebumps in the desert. If it’s not just anxiety, he thinks it might well be the Force. It’s growing into more of a knowing than a needling - telling him something’s happened, telling him Jon’s in trouble. 

He shakes his head. ‘Something’s wrong.’ 

Sasha speaks up then, again with the same tone - an attempt at reassurance that does the opposite by barely concealing exasperation. ‘He likes sorting things out on his own, if you’ve noticed.’

‘I’ve noticed he seems to end up in scrapes,’ Martin returns. He’s almost shocked at how snippy he sounds, the other two obviously are. But he’s not risking it. He can feel guilty about it later. He turns around. ‘Basira, do you have a speeder?’

‘Sure,’ they say, impassive, and jerk their head over their shoulder. 

He storms off in that direction before the others can tell him not to worry again. If he’s going to help, worrying is the one thing he does better than any of them. 

Every collision of the blades is loud and ugly. The sound bites, and that crackling laser sparks at Jon’s fingers each time it smacks at his lightsaber with enough force to send him hopping backwards. He barely avoids stumbling. The hunter advances without giving him pause to swing again properly. Again and again the heavy weapon comes down, accompanied with guttural, vicious sounds and he thinks they might really be trying to beat him to a pulp here. 

He throws all his weight, though it must be half his assailant’s, behind one big push, buying him a second to jump again from the sand that is already up to his ankles. He lands behind the hunter and hears their frustration as they whirl around. The veil falls with the movement and betrays a growling mouth and a surprisingly elfish pointed chin. 

Jon swings the blade over his shoulder and round his wrist, tests his weight in his knees and ankles. Side steps again to avoid sinking into the  _ bloody sand.  _ The hunter lifts their glasses to reveal steely grey eyes and glares at him with a glint that says  _ do your worst.  _ The pause only lasts long enough for her to take this moment with the mirth she seems to find in his readiness, before she’s lunging again.

This time her weapon swings for Jon’s kneecaps and he has to jump over it before meeting another swing with his saber. He’s not even sure if he’s fighting back at this point or just desperately trying to keep the thing away from him. This adversary fights angrily, without the fairness and unspoken rules he is used to between two bladed weapons. Can he kill her, he wonders, as another angry swing lands in the sand next to him. He should be trying to disarm her, right? That’s the Jedi way. 

The hunter snarls as another smacking blow has him almost on his knees to absorb the weight of her weapon with his own. So far the Jedi way is not proving terribly successful. She smiles as he jumps backwards and okay maybe the idea of fighting harder is looking more like self defence in advance. Plus (another swishing swing) he wants to know why in the blazes she’s trying to pummel him into the sand if nothing else.

He jumps higher this time, trying not to feel a coward, and regains some high ground on a sand dune that immediately starts to dissolve with his landing. The ground is hard here underneath, he realises as the grains trickle down the incline. A glance behind him reveals shadows that aren’t his own - cast by the shape of the rock. 

It is a better fighting spot. He brings his saber across his body in what he hopes is a display that says  _ back off,  _ but the hunter only points a fist at him. A slippery metal cord erupts from her wrist and fires up the dune. It is spiked and ends with a hooked lasso that Jon barely manages to avoid. Her second attempt is sliced in a flash of green light and her expression darkens, humour leaving it as soon as he gains any lead. Armoured boots clank as she storms up the dune. 

Jon waits just for one second to let her think he’s still playing chivalrous, before forcing a wave of coarse sand into her eyes and leaping away in the time it buys him.

He lands on bent knees inside a dark red cave. 

He doesn’t dare put his saber down at first, but moves away from the small hole he’s dropped through to conceal its light. He waits a second. Listens to the silence and the sandy wind outside. Then he stows it on his belt and takes a look around. 

The cave is empty, but clearly lived in. A mess of blankets. A few sketched lines on the walls. White bark laced with leather straps hold pans and a cowprod. Clay pots and vases scatter near the entrance. No weapons. Fine, he admits. Not a bounty hunter’s hideout then. 

He doesn’t examine anything further. Sand shifts above him with the hunter’s steps, a thin stream trickling through the hole like an hourglass. Jon can sense her prowling right over his head now, knows that it will only be a few precious, centering moments before she finds the entrance. The hope she might give up looking for him is a vague one. He breathes shakily but as quiet as he can, closing his eyes and reaching for that cooling knowledge that will calm him. 

In the space between the air and the rock and every irritating grain of sand he suddenly feels something decisive. Something  _ moving _ that can’t be his own still readiness. A flash of connection to something further away and feeling too. Worry, he realises, and not pityable but determined. It shocks him and he stumbles backwards a little, but still the instinct the Force supplies him is reassurance. Something is happening that will help him. Someone is coming to - 

The hunter crashes through the ceiling. 

Before Jon’s ready the prong of her weapon shoves into his chest and flicks up into his wrist, hard where he'd stuck out a hand. There’s a crunch as his back hits the wall. The hard long side of the hunter’s heavy weapon with all her weight behind it pins him against the rock. 

He tries to reach out for his blade with the Force - planning to catch it, ignite it though her weapon and break the damn thing off him. But everything is too tight and pressing, his wrists stuck uselessly under her weapon. Then there is a shard of hard metal pressing right up under his jaw. Her elbow pushes into his shoulder, a firm line from her forearm to the stretched artery in his neck. His breath sucks in instinctively and suddenly a cold jolt of true fear flinches through him. 

The metal is jagged - scavenged. Surely there's no way she has-? 

‘I know you know what this is, Jedi,’ she hisses smugly, and her voice is one that would chill him even if it weren’t this close and hard from the fight, ‘and I know you know you can't cut through it with your laser sword.’

Whatever he does now - try to reach his belt, Force her backwards - he's going to risk being too slow, or else his throat is going to be collateral. And if it comes to a fight, she still has the one thing he can't beat. 

‘Where does one find pure beskar on Tatooine?’ he asks her, or more accurately asks the ceiling, with his chin stretched up like this. He watches her sneer out of his periphery.

He’s not really sure she’s going to answer, doubtless he won’t get the full story, but he’s thinking there might be some vague gloating about the body she tore it from, before there’s a loud smashing sound to his right and she whirls round. 

The beskar is still in its sharp place, but he chances moving his eyes down to follow her gaze. 

Tim, Sasha, Martin and, he presumes, Basira Hussain are standing in the entrance way to the cave, looking varying degrees of alarmed, betrayed, panicked and furious. 

Martin cringes as Daisy sees them, and Jon realises with a frown that whatever has smashed and given them away was an accident, and not something anyone has touched. 

Tim and Sasha's hands hover over their holsters but Basira holds a hand out in their direction and reaches towards the other hunter. 

‘Daisy,’ she says slowly, ‘put him down.’ 

The others' heads whip round to her with the same realisation Jon is currently grappling with. Two of them. The same side. Betrayed before they’ve even met. Martin is glaring daggers at Basira. It would almost be enough to make Jon laugh if he didn't think moving his mouth that much would nick his skin on the beskar. 

Daisy replies in the same slow, cautious voice. From her though, it sounds more like a growl. ‘The Jedi bounty is very sizable in this system,’ she points out, and as terrifying as that is, Jon can’t help be a little vindicated that he  _ was  _ right to come alone. He’d only have exposed the others to Daisy’s bite when it was always  _ him  _ she was after.  When Basira only frowns Daisy tries ‘I know you know that, partner.’

‘It’s less for a padawan.’ 

Jon tries not to pull a face at that. Or feel anything particular in the sting. 

‘A price is still a price.’ 

Basira shakes her head. ‘He’s come from the Republic. We’re better off not picking fights with them.’

Daisy scoffs. Her elbow digs in deeper and Jon tries not to audibly grimace. His eyes meet Martin’s and he knows he’s failed. 

‘Ugh,’ Daisy groans, ‘the Republic. Don't tell me you think so highly of their ‘democracy’.’ She drawls the last word like acid. ‘What does it mean to you? Their weird little knights of yore and their ‘peacekeeping’ and paperwork.’ 

Her hand brushes past Jon’s cloak. He tries to get there before her, but there’s no way to twist his hand without slicing his wrist on the laser embedded in her weapon. The weight leaving his belt feels violating - the way the hilt of his saber glints in her hand feels wrong and cruel. 

She grins, baring her teeth as she examines it. Her finger traces over the ignition. 

The way Daisy had taken the lightsaber, the way she’s holding it like a precious object when it clearly means so much more to Jon than the money it would raise makes the fear in Martin's blood boil away to pure adrenaline. More concentrated than the abstract panic that had burst out of him and broken that old clay vase when he’d first come into the cave. 

No. She can’t have it. He throws a hand out in spite and protective instinct, and the silver hilt of Jon's sword lands hard in his palm.

Suddenly every eye is but Daisy’s is on him, and he hears the others itching for blasters behind him as they watch the muscles in her neck go taught. 

He feels all the better for having it, but the way she turns slowly round to look at him makes it tremble a little in his hand. He doesn’t ignite it, doesn’t know how if he’s being honest, and he’s not sure Jon would like it. What would he do anyway? Instead, he tries to hold it defiantly, rest his thumb in a place that will convince her he knows how to wield it. 

Daisy grins a terrible grin. ‘Oh,’ she sneers, ‘so there are two of you.’ 

Martin swallows and tries to ignore whatever it is in her tone - the condescension, the unhurried ease that suggests she fears nothing from him, nothing from the Jedi - that sets his teeth on edge. He looks at Jon instead - it’s hard not to, in fact. It looks like he can barely move his head with what seems to be a jagged knife at his throat. But he’s clearly trying to say something with his eyes, looking back and forth between Martin and then his own chest. 

‘Basira,’ Daisy tries again, her voice curling round the sound, ‘come on. We can split it - double the reward and a couple less patronising do-gooder cultists to worry about.’

It’s very weird, even in the middle of all this, to hear the Jedi talked about in this way. Jon seems to admire them so much, talks like he reveres them. Martin had just kind of assumed most people thought the same, or more like Tim and Sasha’s fond teasing alongside admiration. 

Basira shakes their head. ‘The Order pays better than those that hunt them do, believe me.’ 

_ ‘What?’  _ Comes a strangled rasp from Jon. Daisy pushes the back of his head into the wall with her knife. 

_ What?  _ Martin tries to ask him with freshly panicking eyes. He doesn’t have any urge to unpack that apparently the Jedi use bounty hunters too - he can only suck in a breath watching the jagged metal against the bruise that had only begun to heal. Jon just keeps struggling to pointedly look between Martin and- oh, he’s looking at the knife.  _ Yes _ , Martin wants to say,  _ obviously I can see it, I’m fucking terrified for you, I’m trying to help you, what do you want me to do? _

Daisy growls. ‘You’re working for  _ them?  _ You’re a Republic lapdog now?’

In her passion she turns further away from Jon to glare at Basira. The light from above them glints on the knife and in a stab of panic Martin recognises that it isn’t a knife at all, it’s a messy shard of a metal he knows well. Expensive, impossible to work with. Deadly strong. 

He gasps, throat dry and feels his eyes going wide and shamefully wet. He panics and his hand moves with it. 

The beskar flies from Daisy's grip and clatters to the floor. 

Then everything moves very quickly. 

Daisy whips round, lunges for the makeshift knife. But now that he can move without slicing an artery, Jon is too quick for her. He throws a hand out, forcing it out of her reach towards the front of the cave where Sasha stamps down on it. Daisy hisses and winds up for a swing with the heavy weapon she’s still holding. Jon puts out another hand and his lightsaber is tugged out of Martin's grip. It flies across the cave, and Jon catches it just as Daisy turns on him.

They collide in the corner in a clash of laser. 

Basira pulls a blaster, aiming between the two of them. Tim and Sasha pull theirs - training two sights on Daisy, one on Basira just in case. Martin wishes he’d had the foresight to take one on the way over here. He daren’t move too suddenly in the electric air, so he settles for lamely holding his hands out in a way that only slightly reassures him. Maybe it’ll look at least a bit intimidating. 

‘Daisy!’ Basira shouts, taking in the weapons trained on her apparent friend. ‘There’s more of them, just give it up.’

Daisy groans back over her shoulder, ‘we could take them if you help me. I could take them all myself if you  _ didn’t _ try to help me-’

She is interrupted by a sudden beeping sound. Everyone looks round then to find the source of it. 

A red light blinks on an explosive in Tim's hand. 

‘We’re not afraid of you,’ he says, and his voice doesn’t betray anything but anger. 

The silence that follows his speech is deadly quiet - only the crackle of lasers, the hum of idling blasters, and that beeping countdown. The deadly little peeps are getting closer together. Beep beep beepbeepbeep-

‘Wait,’ Basira calls. They drop their blaster and talk to Jon now. ‘I’ll answer your questions. I’ll give you whatever information I know, just stand down. All of you.’

Jon nods. Tim snaps a button on the detonator and they all breathe a sigh as the chirps turn to silence. Martin notices he and Sasha are reluctant to lower their blasters. Daisy’s back is set against surrender, her arms clenched as she holds her weapon steady against the lightsaber’s blade. 

‘Daisy,’ Basira says, and as much as it sounds like a command, there is something weirdly gentle in her voice. Martin still doesn’t trust either of them. ‘Daisy, stand down.’ 

There is another second of bated breaths. Then Daisy sighs and steps back, hanging her weapon by her side. Basira makes a relieved sound and Tim and Sasha lower their blasters fully, but Martin is glad to see his own skepticism reflected in Jon's face, still lit by the green of his own weapon. 

Daisy nods at him, gestures a path to the others somewhat sarcastically. Jon clearly thinks better than to push his luck. He stows his blade, but the cautious look stays as he picks his way past her. 

‘Right,’ he coughs as he steps into the light. 

He looks a little rattled and there is sand all through his hair, but Martin is relieved to see there are no nicks visible on his throat as he clears it out. 

‘It’s good to meet you, Ms Hussain,’ he says, holding out a professional hand. ‘I was hoping we could talk.’ 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw - so this chapter we got a fight scene w some peril and some hostage esque violence basically a rip off of mag91 incl daisy. shes not a cop in this but she does the same stuff. also explosives
> 
> if u dk star wars beskar is basically this sick metal from mandalore which is the planet where the mandalorians r from. it makes the armour pedro pascal wears in the baby yoda show. its like super strong and lightsabers cant cut thru it thats about all i know and all we need to know beriubgeir
> 
> give martin a gun and give jon a hug pls

**Author's Note:**

> ty for reading ! 
> 
> this will be a slow burn and idk how fast im gonna get thru it. its all planned out but i really dk so subscribe and stick w me <3 
> 
> also im still doing commissions and i have a kofi so if u want me to go faster or u wanna support me u can! im not meant to link them here but [here is](https://babyyodablackwood.tumblr.com/post/630528010471211008/ao3-fic-commissions-kofi-i-am-offering-proof) a link to the links
> 
> x


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